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isfjmel-phleg · 2 months ago

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Random OC Facts: Delclis (Revised and Updated)

Since the two previous lists were old and contained some ideas that no longer work with what I'm going for, I've recompiled them into a new list, retaining most of the facts, but adjusting some, replacing others, and adding more.

Has possibly a better relationship with his plants than he does his family, judging by which party he speaks to and plays gramophone records for more.

Named his dog Canis familiaris (the scientific name for the species) less because he’s a nerd and more because he didn’t trust himself to remember anything else. He’s not good with details.

Goes in enthusiastically and even ruthlessly for traditional hunting and shooting, one of the few interests he and his stepfather Talfrin share. Will not look at or have anything to do with the carcass, because he is squeamish.

Is, at age fourteen, in a committed relationship with Science and finds the thought of romance for himself incredibly awkward and off-putting. This does not stop him from privately being an avid fan of the works of his world’s equivalent of Jane Austen. It's a very intellectualized interest.

Has had his entire life mapped out from an early age and has made few deviations from The Plan ever since (until he unexpectedly inherits the crown and everything is ruined).

Soft-spoken, with a tendency to speak as if he were reading his words off cue cards.

Is usually polite if approached but doesn’t go out of his way to seek people. In fact, he goes out of his way to avoid them. He doesn’t hate humanity. He just likes quiet and privacy more. (And you probably would too if you had had to grow up with his brother.)

Will tell you that plants prefer marches. At least, that's most of what he plays for them on his gramophone.

Can ride a horse reasonably well but is ridiculously inept with bicycles, cars, anything that's machinery. He's a botanist, not an engineer.

Produces broadly-depicted but technically accurate botanical sketches in the margins of his schoolbooks. All of them.

As a child, mostly got in trouble for not asking permission. It wasn't (always) willful disobedience; he just would take notions in his head to go off and do something by himself and then just do it without notifying anyone.

A bundle of nerves inside but outwardly almost eerily detached, to the point that most people don't want to find out what might happen when he finally reaches the breaking point.

Has every reason to be an excellent chess player. Cannot win a game to save his life, a fact his brother enjoys reinforcing.

Terrible at recognizing faces of people whom he doesn’t know well. He doesn’t mean to be rude, but he’s far-sighted and doesn’t see anyone close up well enough to memorize features. His pince-nez help, but he’s not always allowed to wear them in public.

Well-versed in not just the science but also the language of flowers. If he gives you a plant, it’s not just a kindness but probably some sort of code.

Both stubborn and nonconfrontational, which means that his life has been a series of passive-aggressive power struggles.

His mother gave him a microscope for his thirteenth birthday. His immediate response was to leave the room. She was upset that he apparently hated it. He was actually quite touched but embarrassed about reacting in front of her.

Surprisingly quite an attentive, if not especially empathetic, listener. Unless your name is Elystan.

Will say he doesn’t care what you think of him. He does. A lot. Specifically in regard to his knowledge and competence.

Although a good student overall, has always considered history his worst subject, on the grounds that he finds it pointless to learn all those meaningless details about people and events so long ago that they don’t matter much anymore. Prefers to concentrate on where Corege is going, instead of where they’ve been. This attitude can’t possibly cause him any problems later.

Received his wire fox terrier, Canis Familiaris, as a Christmas present from his stepfather, who felt the boy needed a hunting dog, and from his mother, who thought it would do him good to have a live creature to care for. It was one of the very few times Talfrin and Bethira have agreed on anything.

Before becoming King, used to go on surreptitious walking excursions to villages near Endean (the estate where he and his brother lived), accompanied by his tutor. They would explore old architecture, search for local flora on the way, and chat with villagers. No one recognized him, since he was typically absent from the royal family’s public appearances and official photographs, but for additional security, he would pose as his tutor’s son and use the alias Gearalt Davell.

Consequently is an experienced outdoorsman who can make camp and cook over a fire in the woods whenever necessary–i.e. as often as he can get away with it. (The estate has never been large enough for him to completely avoid his brother.)

Ever since he was six, has presented his mother on her birthday with a portfolio of flowers he has pressed and labeled himself, with increasing complexity. It went over well the first year he did it and he’s stuck with it ever since because it’s effective and he’s unsure how else to relate to her.

Developed his interest in plants in early childhood from a habit of tearing apart flowers and grass to see how their insides worked. The gardener at Endean got tired of this and solved the problem by teaching and encouraging him to cultivate his own plants. And it escalated from there.

Keeps his books arranged not by author or subject but by theme in the order he believes they flow from each other. No one else can make any sense of it, but it works for him.

At age twelve, dismantled and put on an entire suit of armor from the long gallery after Elystan dared him to. After getting in, found he couldn’t get out, and at that point Elystan made himself scarce and Delclis had to go clanking in shame through the house looking for help.

Has a mild interest in the sport of wickets and has accompanied his stepfather to the annual Hollingham v. Christleton match for quite a few years–and enjoyed it. Has played the game a few times with village teams during his excursions, but isn’t much good at it, especially fielding, during which he tends to daydream.

Spent most of his first day as king exploring his wing of Rhosemore Palace with the intent of evading all the people who now expected things of him. Managed to elude them for a good five hours, with the consequence of learning that A) there were several prime hiding spots but they were almost impossible to reach without being noticed and B) being king does not exempt one from scoldings for avoiding responsibility.

Has strong religious beliefs, influenced by his tutor and his mother, and this informs his interest in science. Despite his faith in the goodness of God and meaningfulness in the universe, he struggles with cynicism in his views toward his fellow man.

Not a generous person by nature, but if he likes someone, he will tend to spontaneously give them things. Odd things, but always with some kind of personal symbolic meaning that's clearer to him than to the recipient.

Has never been outside of Corege. His mother and stepfather never brought their boys along on international travel (Elystan was always too young or too ill, and it was politically inexpedient to take Delclis anywhere in public), and as king, he is too busy to leave town most of the time, let alone leave the country.

Is conscientiously tidy and orderly in some aspects of his life but messy in others. His room tends to be in disarray, while his desk and plant stands are spotless.

Has never had a friend. The closest he ever came to it was on a walk through a local village when he was about eight. A local boy initiated an impromptu game of Association football with him. They didn't talk much, but they enjoyed each other's company enough to play every time Delclis passed through--until the boy stopped showing up. Delclis never knew his name or what happened to him.

Seldom got the opportunity to interact with other boys of his social class, because of a combination of living in an isolated location, inability to have many visitors because of fears of exposing Elystan to disease, and Talfrin's deliberately keeping him from forming bonds with anyone with political influence/connections. Officially, though, it was because he himself was not interested in socializing, a trait that Talfrin always encouraged.

#The Blackberry Bushes #The Blackberry Bushes OC facts #Delclis Phemister

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coyoteprince · 1 year ago

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more of an open question but what are some fun worldbuilding things you can think of off the top of your head? I want to hear more owo

Sorry for this novel

Waite has a grey (the kind that looks white) mare named Seraphim, who will make a minor appearance in comic. She's based on a Suffolk punch and Narragansett pacer.

All horses within Widderwood story have a dorsal stripe, no matter if theyre earthly or fae or whatever breed.

Likewise, almost every fae within Widderwood have ear tufts

Degare got his hat in a trade for sex from a Darlington priest, though it is a farmer's planter hat. His shoe style is also called a winklepicker.

Every person's soul is represented by a flame and each person has their own lantern (or lamp, or candle holder...) in Sandman's garden. From a design point, his garden has two principals: the light must always be a flame (no electric light), and time doesn't matter so modern lanterns are okay to depict, but only in this space.

Widderwood is technically steampunk, but I don't think it's going to be super obvious in comic unless you look super closely? Time rules are also funky: I've delayed invention of something yet moved up other things. It technically takes place during the 1880's, but plenty Edwardian and even modern day things pop up. No cars, but gramophones will soon be released. Coal is starting to die off in use and steam and some electricity are quickly becoming king. Prosthetics & aides are heavily decorated and become a hot tool to customize and be proud of. Women wear pants (though high society finds this disturbing) and can own land. Queerness & gay marriage isn't outlawed but its pretty weird to traditionals and queer identity is refered to as "the third sex" as is historical for that period. Those sorts of things

Primary community of Darlington is Caucasian, Black, and Native American, but all manner of people pass through thanks to the nearby port city

What is equivalent to the americas in Widderwood is made up of "territories", which I've been leaving vague because I cannot manage to care about building political empires, I just want two dogs to kiss. Either way, Darlington is ruled by English-equivalent, but original England-equivalent got overthrowed and wiped off the map. Southern state-equivalent, Eastern Canada-equivalent and some of the plains are under similar but different self-governing rule. Much of the western territories are aboriginal-ruled and the entire continent is much smaller than our world. These territories are all mostly on good terms with each other because this is just background flavoring. I'm trying to figure out a naming system for these territories or if it even matters since this story is pretty contained.

My partner bought me a vintage prosthetic leg from a firehazard of a thrift store just so I can use it as reference for Simon's false leg. It literally floats about the house in different spots and we just call it "Simon's leg"

Speaking of Simon, partner also bought me a Victorian book all about prosthetics which surprisingly is very empathetic and includes sentiments from actual disabled people of the time. I used this book to help me figure out what exact style of prosthetic Simon has, as well as his injury. His amputation took place mid calf and despite some mobility issues and how he looks, he's decently strong and has good endurance.

Waite is an Aries with pisces moon & taurus rising, Degare Gemini with scorpio & leo, Simon is Capricorn but idk his moon and rising. I don't give much thought to astrology but I think using it to build character personalities is very fun.

Widderwood mermaids are a combination of selkies and mermaids. They have front & back flippers and inhabit the same role as selkies in that there's many stories of marrying humans and their spouse stealing their skins.

Nuckelaaves are essentially slenderman to fae and no one knows what exactly they are

Darlington is known for their abundance of daisy wheels as a symbol of protection, which comes directly from my colonial cemetery special interest. They often top the margins of colonial tablet graves and have been historically used as a protective symbol against magic worldwide. In my personal practice, I've reclaimed them and they act as my main "religious" symbol, much in the way a cross or pentacle works, and despite the fact they were once used against witches

Darlington & Sullivan Forest geography is set in fantasy Massachusettes with influence from the entire region of New England and forests in Northern Georgia. Locations & buildings in the story will be based on a variety of locations I've visited and documented in person including: Salem Witch House, Bulloch Hall, Root House of Marietta, Atlanta History Museum Gardens & internal exhibits, and Allen County Historical Society & House Museum (the most important museum in my life and the reason why I am the way that I am today). I'm still picking the cemeteries I want to base on, but will likely be a mix of a cemetery I accidentally ran into outside of Salem and a variety of local Georgia + Ohio cemeteries from my childhood. I am hoping to visit Colonial Williamsburg as well as Historic Westville as further reference for town scenes. Yes I am really that intense that I've traveled states wide just to gather research for my gay dog boy webcomic

I have much more I could give, but I need to be careful with what I share to avoid spoiling all my work.

#widderwood

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devildomdoofus · 4 years ago

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I saw you said your commissions are open, if it's ok can I request a fluffy morning with the demon brothers, please? I just found your blog but I already fell in love with your writing style 😍. I hope you have a great day 🤗

Thank you so very much!! 😭 I’m over the moon that I can make you happy with my writing and I’ll GLADLY take this request ✨ I hope you have a great day as well!!

I also hope I’ve done your request justice 🥺

- DevildomDoofus

Through Morning’s Rays

Fluffy mornings with the Obey Me! Brothers

💙Lucifer:

Both of your schedules differed a generous amount. He wakes up the earliest out of the House of Lamentation and Purgatory Hall combined, to ensure everyone’s up and ready for school/work/etc.... and he is the last to go to bed.

That is, if he isn’t dog tired by the time he’s finished doing his last rounds of security checks and sending any remaining night owls to their rooms to keep their schedules in check, and collapses at his desk while finalizing reports.

You, on the other hand, have a steady schedule due to your obligations to your school (and job, if you worked).

To say that you two have a hard time spending any amount of quality time together is an understatement

Please forgive him, he is a lone father and he is trying his best

When he’s up early to get a head start in working to the bone, as usual and doesn’t have much time to share the fleeting, morning hours with you, he’ll gingerly place a kiss to the top of your head and shift the blankets from your late night tossing and turning, back to their place over your shoulders and covers the rest of your body. He’ll leave a little note by the bedside table that wishes you a wonderful day and promises that he’ll meet with you shortly to make up for lost time.

On the rare occasions that he manages to be able to share mornings with you, it is like a gift from the celestial realm to you both in which afterwards, the two of you are like completely different people, beaming with sunshine and happiness as your batteries have been recharged.

In those rare moments, he’ll slide to your side of the bed, oh so carefully snake his arm around you and tugs you gently into his embrace as he places kisses all atop your head. When you finally open your eyes and face him, he’ll run his hand up the length of your silhouette to your face, cupping it, rub his thumb over your cheek and smile lazily. “Good morning, lamb.” He whispers, trying to disguise the grogginess in his voice. Then, he leans down to press his lips against yours in a way that makes you feel like he’s been starving for you for months on end, only to now get what he’s craved and yet it’s not enough.

In this moment, nothing in all of the realms matters to him more than you. Just you and you alone.

💛Mammon:

You spent many, many, MANY mornings with him and they were some of your favorite memories since you first came to the Devildom. For him.... well, maybe not at first since you were kind of a chore. But the was before you two became so close.

The only problem was that neither of you were morning people, especially if either of you had responsibilities that day like school or work. To deal with such a thing, the two of you made a deal where each of you took turns being the one to help wake the other.

There were mornings where he woke you up with a heavy pillow to the torso and it ended up in you two being late for school due to an epic pillow fight that neither of you wanted to lose.

Other mornings, you woke him up by jumping and flopping around next to him on the bed, belting a song that was the favorite of the pair of you, and he tackles you back down to the bed to deliver you a piping hot plate of a tickle fight

and then there were THOSE mornings.

These mornings, when the two of you just happened to wake around the same time, he’d smile sleepily, yank you closer, and place a kiss on your forehead. “Mornin’, my lil’ human.”

UGH, that gravely, morning voice would be the bittersweet death of you.

While having a few hours to spare, you would lay there in the semidarkness, whispering sweet everythings to each other, exchanging kisses and joke ensued laughter, and simply enjoying each other’s company while entangled in a comfy, cozy embrace.

🧡Leviathan:

It’s the same sort of situation as with Mammon; neither of you were really morning people. But with you two, it was because it came with the terms and conditions of being like minded nerds (as a fellow ‘nerd,’ I mean that term in the best way possible and as a compliment) in which the endgame boss had to be defeated, or that one episode simply could not be missed, or your favorite celebrity/idol was going live and you were not about to be absent for it. Many evenings were spent indulging in both of your favorite hobbies, well into the latest hours of the night and early morning, when you should’ve been sleeping instead.

So of course, mornings were INCREDIBLY ROUGH for the two of you.

In the beginning and a majority of the time, you were the one to wake him up. I hope you can forgive him, though, because almost all of his energy is spent drowning out his negative thoughts and the outside judgement from his own brothers, haters, and toxic fans alike via his hobbies and he doesn’t quite have enough energy to take care of himself, including waking up on time for school or other responsibilities/obligations to avoid getting an ass-chewing from Lucifer... much less waking up on time and then having to wake YOU up.

You had to show him the way, in a sense. You’re his motivation and safety net. Where you go, and ensure his ‘safety’ he delightfully follows. Ergo, you had to be the alarm clock for him, for a while, to be shown that you truly care about him and it’s not all just some exasperating, ridiculously elaborate and heart shattering prank.

Your method of ‘raising the dead’ was to gently comb your hand through his hair while softly beckoning him from his dream world with your sweetest voice to ‘the land of the living.’ His eyes would flutter open and as soon as he saw you with that heartwarming smile, his face would turn a deep crimson and he’d smile back, reaching a hand up to place it over top of yours, somewhat nuzzling into it. “Good morning, my human Henry.” His shy, quiet, gravely voice could melt lava.

Through this method of yours, he no longer woke with animosity for the normie world but was rather hopeful and optimistic, feeling as if nothing could bring him down. Not even his brothers’ insults.

Eventually, he got the hang of it, and he was the one waking YOU up and he did so as sweetly as you had done. He’d place his hand on your cheek, rub his thumb over it, and gingerly place a multitude of kisses atop your head as he whispered your name until you woke.

Some mornings when he was feeling extra giddy, he would place a little speaker near where you had fallen asleep and quietly play your favorite song as he sang along and took hold of your hands to swing them gently to the beat. He saw it once in an anime episode and was hoping it would award him the same giggles the love interest gave the protagonist.

Fortunately for him, it always did.

💚Satan:

Being one of the more mature and responsible brothers, he rarely ever slept in. It’s just in his nature to be an early bird to catch the early worm.. mostly to get it over with so he could get back to doing what he loved most; reading in comfort. Even still, his schedule matched with yours almost perfectly, and that’s due to the fact that, similar to Leviathan, you two were likeminded.

You had the same interests and hobbies so of course, the pair of you grew very close, very quickly. You first linked up for study sessions because celestial realm knows that school in the Devildom was VASTLY different than human world schools, then book club meetings for when you got a little more comfortable with each other’s presence, then as you became even closer, you just decided to do the same things at the same time as it killed two birds with one stone; you got to do what you enjoyed with the person you enjoyed the most.

Mornings to you two were fairly simple and honestly, quite enjoyable with the other being there when you woke.

One morning, Satan took the first step and woke you to the pleasant sound of one of your favorite records echoing from an antique gramophone while placing a tray of your favorite breakfast foods next to the bed. He then leant down, took your hand into his, and kissed from your knuckles, all the way up to your shoulder, and then planting one final, light kiss to your cheek. “My darling MC, it is time to come back to me. Your dreams have had you long enough.”

From then on, you took turns in trying to wake the other in the most romantic ways possible. From your favorite flower’s petals scattering the bed, to his favorite audio books reading him awake. There was nothing that you two wouldn’t do in order to guarantee that the other woke to nothing less than the world on a silver and golden platter.

He was the envy of his brothers especially Mammon, getting to spend so much time with you and having you smile as brightly as you did with him.

💖Asmodeus:

Surprisingly, he’s another early riser. Though when you really think about it, it isn’t quite that surprising, considering he has a strict self-care routine that CANNOT be broken, lest he wishes to end up with a pimple or even worse... a wrinkle! Which neither are bad if you have them, it’s just for Asmo’s personal tastes for his own appearance, he prefers to have none of them.

Because he cares for you so much, he forces sternly asks that you have the same schedule as he does so he can give you the same love and care as he gives himself. He wants you to look and feel as wonderful as who you are on the inside... but he also loves it when you absolutely SHINE.

Please don’t be mistaken, he doesn’t think you’re ugly or unattractive or any other negative thoughts you might have about yourself, in the least. Not at ALL. He simply wishes to amplify what wonderful assets you already have (to your own tastes, of course) because of that oh so magnificent way you carry yourself when you feel your best.

Want to as pretty as a sunset? He’s got you covered. Want to be as handsome as... well, him? You’re covered there too. Want a little mix of any and everything? Oh please, give him a challenge! Whatever look you wish for, he’s there to help you make it happen.

You just have to take his hand and follow his lead. And his lead requires that you be ‘up and at ‘em’ early enough to go through the self-care routine (that he handpicked things for, according to you and your body’s needs), and eat the proper foods so your body and mind can handle the weight of being the most stunning thing to walk the face of any of the realms... besides him, of course. Also, all of this has to happen before school begins.

Unfortunately, that’s pretty early. There’s a LOT of self-care to-do’s that you two have to go through to ensure maximum amplification.

But because he knows that this can be rather overwhelming and a bit stressful to keep up with all of the time (and stress causes physical and mental harm), he’s always sure to make your mornings as pleasant and stress-free as possible.

He lights one of your favorite candles or incenses, and/or turns one of your favorite slower/softer songs on then climbs into bed and over top of you to begin his trails of kisses from the top of your head, down your face, neck and chest, further down your precious tummy, and stops right at your hips to go back up your body and start again. All of this on repeat as he coos and whispers your name, his soothing voice leading you from your dreams to the waking world. When your eyes meet his, he hums “ahh, my dear, you’ve returned to me.” He moves to kiss your lips as sweetly as he speaks.

He then slips his arms underneath you and lifts you up, as if you were one of Lucifer’s feathers, to carry you bridal style into the bathroom. He’ll then set you down and slowly undress you, taking as much time as you need him to, before helping you into the tub and giving you the gentlest of washes you’ve had since before you can even remember.

He’s the most soothing alarm that’s ever existed.

❤️Beelzebub:

Not really an early riser but he’s also not one to sleep in, either. To sleep in means to miss breakfast, and to miss breakfast is a death sentence for himself and anyone in the way of his next meal.

It also means that he doesn’t get to spend his mornings or share breakfast with you. Another death sentence but this one’s for his heart. Even though he might not say it, being that putting his thoughts and feelings into words is a bit harder than his more comfortable/natural way of simply showing you through his actions, he loves you very, very, VERY much.

This man cares so fucking much for you, he’d give up eating for the rest of his life if it meant you got to have a crumb. But he hopes it doesn’t have to come to that.

The way that Beel shows you that he cares is through food. Eating with you, cooking with you, watching you eat to be sure that you’re getting enough food in your own body, taking his time to eat his food because, now, he’s too busy having wonderful conversations with you, and every and anything in between.

One of his favorite ways is breakfast in bed. You had done it once for him before on one of your anniversaries and ever since then, he’s done it for you in return whenever he got the chance.

On mornings that he had waken up early enough, he’d quietly get up and tiptoe to the kitchen to make both of you a delicious breakfast. If Belphegor was up, on the rarest of rare occasions that he was, he’ll make a little something for him too. He’d put together your favorite foods and beverage while doing the same for himself, draw a cute little heart on a small post-it note and placing it on your side of the tray, tip-toe back up to the room and sets it on the nightstand beside the bed, then moves in close to you to start waking you up. He leans in close and peppers your face in little kisses before moving a little lower to your neck and giving his signature, gentle bite. “MC, honey, wake up. I’ve brought you breakfast.”

Nine times out of ten, you wake up in an instant. When you’ve slept heavily during the night and have a harder time waking up, he plops down onto you gently of course as to not squish you and groans in your ear, nibbling them to remind you of who you’re keeping waiting. “MCCC, pleeeease, I’m hungry. Don’t make me eat yours.”

The warning never fails.

As you two chow down, his dimpled smile never leaves his face nor his eyes on you as he watches you enjoy another morning filled with your favorite things: Beel and Beel’s signature breakfast.

💜Belphegor:

Morning? What the hell is a morning?

Yeah, yeah, he knows what a morning is. He’s had to get up for them too many fucking times to count in order to get to school on time.. or at least try. His attendance is, more or less, nonexistent. He’s just not a morning person.

at ALL.

WHAT. SO. EVER.

The one thing ‘Mr. Sandman’ doesn’t do is wake up or get woken up if the awakener values their life

However... if it is you, his favorite walking and talking pillow, he can’t be that pissed about it. It’s a little more of a smooth transition from being asleep to being awake when you’re the one bringing him there.

So, yes, you’re the one waking him up and it’s never the other way around, but you knew this would be your lot in life the closer you had gotten to him.

And yet, whenever you tried to wake him, he’d simply wrap his arm over you and drag you back down onto the bed as he rolls on top of you, nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck. “No.” he’d groan in his gravelly morning voice.

What? What did he mean ‘no’ ?! It’s time to get up!!

You’d try your best to to wiggle free but Belphegor is far more stronger than he looks and keeps you pinned down in place. Well... at least it’s comfy.

Wait no, this is his way of coercing you to go back to sleep with him!

Before you can try something else, he plants warm and slow kisses up and down your neck and nibbles at the skin just beneath your ear while whispering in a low tone, “why don’t we just stay here and do something better than go to school?”

Your face heats up and body tenses underneath him. It was not uncommon for him to try this tactic, especially in the morning, so you were fairly used to it but sometimes... sometimes it just does something to you and you’re frozen in place with nothing but his voice to lull you wherever it pleased. Maybe it came with being the Avatar of Sloth? He moves up onto his elbows to deliver his final attack that was his signature, teasing smile in order for him to fully keep you here, in bed, with him and simply enjoy each other’s company while you slept.

Unfortunately for him, this was his mistake and you gained yourself a foothold in pushing him off of you. Getting up from the bed, you look back at him as you straighten your clothes out and fix your hair, saying “Breakfast is in ten minutes,” with a stern voice. You take notice of this and try to sweeten it up to truly convince him. “Be there, won’t you?” you demand more than request, with a signature smile of your very own.

He brings his dropped jaw back up from when you were able to knock him off, and shakes his head as he lightly chuckles. “Whatever you want, MC.” Before you completely walk out of the door, he calls after you. “You owe me!”

You peak back in just enough for him to hear you as you’re closing the door. “No, you owe me.”

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peterxwade24 · 4 years ago

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Into the Mari-Verse

For Maribat March 2021 day 12 prompt Second Chance (sort of. if you squint hard enough).

I know this one is late (like four days late) but i hope you enjoy it regardless.

Enjoy ~

Ever since Marinette was little she’d always wondered if there was more than just her universe. Her parents had always chuckled at her, simply letting her get wrapped up in what they believed to be an obsession with science fiction.

When Marinette was ten years old she’d already consumed nearly all of the media about other universes or realities. She decided instead to begin writing about her own reality. She simply let her mind wander, writing down everything that crossed her mind.

She was eleven when she met a kind, if opinionated, old man who didn’t tell her that her ideas were useless and better suited for boys like her Nonno Roland. She could look past his opinions on how she dressed and how she acted so she could have someone who didn’t think her stance on the multiverse theory was dumb. His name was Master Wang Fu and he taught her different methods of meditation.

---

Three months after she turned eleven, one month after she met Master Fu, she woke up in a place she’d never been in before. Luckily she had her phone on her so she could quickly search for her parents’ patisserie.

The first article she found was about a fire. The fire took not only her home and her parents’ business, but also her parents. The second article she found was about what happened to her after. She learned that she’d been shuffled around from home to home for a while before some American billionaire, Bruce Wayne, took her in and legally adopted her, giving her several siblings as well as a new grandparent and an aunt.

She was drawn out of her thoughts by a large dog, identified as Titus by a family photo on one of the newspapers’ websites, jumping on top of her and a call of “Copycat?” from her doorway. She turned to look at whomever was at the door, a boy maybe one year older than her identified as Damian by the same family photo.

“Hey, Damian.” She could tell from the way he was looking at her that she usually called him something else.

“Did you hit your head? Should I retrieve Todd?” Damian turned on his heel and went in search of ”Todd”.

Marinette looked at that same family photo, taken by a Ms. Lois Lane, to learn who exactly “Todd” was. She learned his name, Jason Todd, and put a face to the name. Her vision started to get cloudy and she felt herself slump forward.

The last thing she heard was a distressed call of “Pixie?!” before she woke back up in her bed above the patisserie.

---

It had been nearly two months since she had woken up in the Wayne home, having done her research on them in the time since, when she woke up in a different room in the manor. She glanced down, seeing dark skin like Damian’s from her last visit, before searching out a mirror. She looked at herself in the mirror, seeing features she vaguely remembered from Damian prominently displayed on her own face. She glanced down, seeing a black outline of praying mantis peaking through the neckline of the shirt she wore. She decided to get dressed, figuring this other version of her would appreciate the forethought when she woke back up in her body. She pulled on a dark purple high neck shirt with a matching dark purple high-waisted skirt over a pair of gray sheer tights and a pair of purple heeled boots, in an outfit inspired by Starfire.

She left the room, striding through the house as though she owned the building. Her thoughts were cut off by a call of “Man-eater?”

Marinette recognized the voice from the last time she was in the manor. “Jason.” She didn’t get to see the surprise on his face as in the next second her vision was clouding over and she seemed to fall into the wall.

---

The third time Marinette woke up in Wayne Manor, Damian was wrapped around her while their turkey, Jerry, was asleep at the foot of the bed. She gently ran her fingers through Damian’s hair, noticing that their skin tones were almost identical this time, and smiled. She looked up at a barely there sound by the bedroom door and saw a man who she figured would look nearly identical to Damian if he was asleep. She dug back through her memories, recalling that the man in the doorway was named Bruce (the same man who’d adopted her the first time she’d woken up in the manor) while another man, similar to Bruce, appeared just over his shoulder with a smile on his face. Marinette smiled back at him before several sets of too loud footsteps sounded behind the two men, causing her to clap her hands over her ears.

She didn’t hear anything they said as she faded away from this reality, having put together after the first time that she was traveling between realities and inhabiting that reality’s Marinette.

---

The fourth time, Marinette woke up in her bedroom in the patisserie, or what she assumed was her bedroom. She ran her hand through her hair, finding it much shorter than she remembered and when she pulled her hand away there were dark red strands of hair caught between her fingers. She figured maybe she wasn’t Marinette Dupain-Cheng this time simply from the red hair, but she also knew she wasn’t related to Damian due to her pale skin. She watched as her phone lit up with a notification from Chloé, followed by a notification from Nino and finally a notification from Kim before her vision grew cloudy and she drifted away from this reality.

---

The fifth time, Marinette jolted awake in her bedroom, a scream dying on her tongue. She looked around her, seeing a sickly green coloured broken heart floating beside her head. She also noticed the teal colour of her hair, figuring that something had happened to cause her to want to change her hair. She looked at her phone as it lit up with a notification from Chloé, which was one of two common things between this reality and the last. She faded quicker from this reality than the last few, not understanding why until she talked to Master Fu about it.

---

Marinette sat across from Master Fu in the main room of his massage parlor. Her head was bent while she waited for him to finish his tea.

Master Fu looked at Marinette, could see the residual magic from the Rabbit miraculous left on her being. He raised an eyebrow as he caught a glimpse of reisual magic from the Snake miraculous around her head and frowned. “Do you believe in magic?”

Marinette nodded, looking at the older man. “Of course. One can’t believe in alternate realities that run parallel to their own without acknowledging the existence of magic.”

Master Fu suddenly got up and moved to an old looking gramophone, pushing a series of buttons until an ancient looking jewelry box rose out of the gramophone. Master Fu carried it over to the table and opened it to reveal sixteen animal themed pieces of jewelry.

“These are- where did you find these?” Marinette looked up at Master Fu, her eyes shining a pale indigo.

Master Fu smiled at Marinette. “Marinette Dupain-Cheng. Despite never having come in contact with these jewels you seem to have tapped into the abilities of some of the beings held in this box. It is my sworn duty to protect them. Will you join me in protecting these jewels from harm and reclaiming the two lost jewels?”

Marinette nodded, holding herself back from reaching out for the jewels. “I will join you.”

---

Marinette awoke in Wayne Manor again, this time wearing an ouroboros snake bracelet with yellow citrine eyes, and she instantly knew something was different. “Sass, scales slither,” she uttered as she looked around the room seeing nothing beyond the darkness.

She was cloaked in an aqua green light and when it vanished her eyes glowed yellow allowing her to actually take in her surroundings. She uttered “second chance” as she turned her bracelet engaging her ability as she waited for the sense of wrongness to approach.

Her vision clouded over once again as she faded from this reality, wondering where she’d end up next.

Vipère awoke in her place, her eyes flicking from left to right, before she sighed and slumped back down onto her bed. “Sass, scales rest.” Vipère was cloaked in an aqua green light and when it disappeared, Martha was in her place. “Sass, is anyone else in the room?”

“No Guardian. There isn’t.” Sass responded.

“Thank you Sass.”

@maribatmarch-2k21

#maribat #maribat march #ml crossover #mlb crossover #ml x dc #mlb x dc #elements from BWYD #elements from SFiRS #elements from BHaNB #elements from TSP #reality hopping

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tealin · 4 years ago

Text

Cape Crozier: The Return Journey

As usual, please visit the original blog for proper formatting and images that actually turn up ... All the more important for this one because the punchline is a picture.

When the Crozier party turned their frostbitten faces back to Cape Evans on 25 July 1911, they had endured some of the worst conditions man has ever had to face – at least while armed with the necessary scientific equipment to quantify them. Record cold, hurricane-force winds, a three-day blizzard with no greater shelter than their sopping wet reindeer skin sleeping bags; all this in the dark of polar midwinter. The one small but significant mercy was that they had not lost their tent. They knew that, leaving the moderating influence of the sea at Cape Crozier, they would be plunging again into the brutal cold of Windless Bight, but that was the way home, and home they had to go.

Cherry describes cooking as being the third worst job. Some parts of the cooker set had been lost in the hurricane, and though they improvised one with the lid of a biscuit tin, the cooker still had to be balanced on top of the Primus stove by whoever was on duty. The matches in their dreadful metal tins had only got more frosted since the outward journey. The strings on the ration bags were like steel wires. It took more than an hour to get their pemmican hoosh made.

The worst job was thawing oneself into one's sleeping bag at the end of the day. The sleeping bags had absorbed so much moisture by now that they were more or less solid ice. The men had figured out early on that if one's sleeping kit were plugged into the mouth of the bag in the morning, one got a small headstart thawing in. It still took over an hour of melting the bag open inch by inch with their own body heat to open it fully, and begin the second worst job of the night, which was lying in the freezing wet bag for six hours. Wilson had made them lie for eight on the outward journey, whether they slept or not – mostly not, by Cherry's recollection – solely for the sake of giving their bodies a rest, but this was agreed to be so unpleasant that they lowered it to six on the return.

Cherry only got two good sleeps, and these were a gift from Bowers: Each of them had an eiderdown lining for their bags, and Cherry's had reached unendurable saturation at Cape Crozier. For days Birdie had been urging me to use his eider-down lining – his beautiful dry bag of the finest down – which he had never slipped into his own fur bag. I had refused: I felt that I should be a beast to take it. [286] Cherry finally relented when he felt as if I should crack … I felt a brute to take it, but I was getting useless unless I got some sleep which my [too] big bag would not allow. [287] After two nights Birdie's eiderdown was too wet to be much help, but that sleep did make a difference.

Dangerously sleep-deprived and nearing the limits of physical resilience, they found themselves nodding off as they marched to make up for the sleep not slept in their bags. Instead of marching in a close cluster, Wilson extended his lead so as to walk well ahead, and thereby spot any crevasses: if he were to fall in, he would be anchored by those safely on solid ground, and they could pull him out. And then, of course, they would know there was a crevasse.

They escaped the worst of the outward temperatures, but -66°F was bad enough. Wilson's bag was too small, and with the extra pressure of the his eiderdown inside it, had begun to split. Most of Cherry's teeth shattered in the cold. But, as Cherry said, now they were callous, and with only one sledge to haul, they were making much better time than they had on the outward journey.

Our departure from Cape Crozier was far less dramatic. We had all scrambled back to the helicopter without mishap or loss, and our pilot took off into the rising wind, in which everything to the south was an indistinct haze. There was no question of taking the Winter Journey route back to McMurdo as visibility was far worse than when we'd been denied that way on the outward flight, so it was back around the island the long way again.

Luckily this meant that we, unlike the egg hunters, got a second go at the penguins. They are under a strict protection order, so a helicopter can't get too close lest it disturb them in any way, but in our swoop around to get the best view of their situation, we did get close enough to see them.

See that sprinkling of black dots down in the finger bay, like the dust on a table where a pepper grinder sits? Those are the Emperors! Here's a closer look:

Then it was time to round the corner and fly back along the north coast to our own version of home. You can see how the cloud cover erases nearly all detail on the snowy slopes of Ross Island and why we couldn't have flown back the cloudy way. As it was, we flew mostly over the sea ice, which was mottled enough to be visible even in the diffuse light.

We only had to get through this patch of cloud and then, as you can see in the distance above, we would reach sunnier skies and safer flying. Retracing more or less the same route we had followed, but this time with the impression of a blizzard sweeping over the island, the strong wind was evident both in the drift blowing off the ice cliffs and how the sea ice, which had been solid around the coast on our outward journey, was now being blown off.

Our return journey certainly couldn't have been more different from the Crozier party's.

Our own final stretch was in the opposite direction, and the first of the 'home' sights was Cape Royds, above, site of another Adélie colony, and the Nimrod hut where Terra Nova men would go for a mini-break from Cape Evans during the first winter, when they weren't hieing off to Cape Crozier. Then, as we left the lee of Ross Island and headed back into the cloud as it poured around this side, a more familiar cape came into view:

Back over Great Razorback, with Turk's Head nearly lost in fog . . .

Back over Glacier Tongue, with seals sleeping where the last lunch of the Winter Journey was had ...

Back over the uncommon luxury of the Discovery hut …

And back to McMurdo, safe and sound.

We trudged on for several more hours and it grew very dark. There was a discussion as to where Cape Evans lay. We rounded it at last : it must have been ten or eleven o'clock, and it was possible that some one might see us as we pulled towards the hut. "Spread out well," said Bill, "and they will be able to see that there are three men." But we pulled along the cape, over the tide-crack, up the bank to the very door of the hut without a sound. No noise from the stable, nor the bark of a dog from the snow drifts above us. We halted and stood there trying to get ourselves and one another out of our frozen harnesses – the usual long job. The door opened – " Good God! here is the Crozier Party," said a voice, and disappeared.

Thus ended the worst journey in the world. [298-9]

Inside was pandemonium. Most men had gone to bed, and I have a blurred memory of men in pyjamas and dressing-gowns getting hold of me and trying to get the chunks of armour which were my clothes to leave my body. Finally they cut them off and threw them into an angular heap at the foot of my bunk. Next morning they were a sodden mass weighing 24 lbs. Bread and jam, and cocoa; showers of questions; "You know this is the hardest journey ever made," from Scott; a broken record of George Robey on the gramophone which started us laughing until in our weak state we found it difficult to stop. ... Then into my warm blanket bag, and I managed to keep awake just long enough to think that Paradise must be something like this.

We slept ten thousand years ... [301]

When my coordinator had phoned me with the details of our flight that afternoon, she apologised that, due to the weather, we couldn't take the Winter Journey route, and would have to go the longer northerly way instead. I replied that it was no problem, and "If Cherry knew I was going to fly to Cape Crozier in 35 minutes, his ghost would skua-dive me," referring to the local species of gull which is notorious for divebombing anyone with the temerity to carry a tasty snack outdoors. She had been on the receiving end of this once or twice in the past, and had told me shortly after my arrival that it feels like being hit on the back of the head with a roasting chicken.

When we were heading north on our way out, and our pilot was briefing us on the route and the flight time, again apologising for the change of plan, my coordinator told him about our conversation, except that instead of the skua-diving ghost she said "Cherry would turn over in his grave."

Our return to McMurdo passed without comment – we had only been gone a couple of hours, and after all, helicopters come and go all the time; there was no reason ours should be more remarkable than any other. It was near enough to dinner time that, once I thanked our pilot profusely and gave my flight gear back to Helo Ops, then swapped my accursed bunny boots for lighter shoes back in my office, there wasn't anything else to do but head to the galley to see what there was to eat.

Well.

#antarctica #cape crozier #snow #winter #ice #snowscape #helicopter #turnovers

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justkeeptrekkin · 5 years ago

Note

Slow dancing as Good Omens fic prompt? I think slow dancing can be really intimate because of the proximity, the looks, the music...

bless you, anon.

***

Aziraphale had never really felt lonely before.

It may come as a surprise to many, but, truly, Aziraphale had never felt lonely. He is an angel who appreciates having time to himself. He is an angel who has chosen to roam Earth on an extended solo holiday for roughly six thousand years, Eat Pray Love style. He is an angel who has set up wards all around his bookshop so every customer is miraculously coerced into leaving the shop after ten minutes of perusing. Up in Heaven, Aziraphale is famous for being a soft, squishy introvert- baffling all the angels, archangels, cherubs and occasional saint.

Being alone is nice.

Being alone isn’t the same as being lonely.

Now, Aziraphale does feel lonely. He stands in the centre of his empty bookshop. A bookshop filled with inanimate, dusty things, but no one there other than him. All these books that he’s always valued so highly, loved so dearly- he still does- but somehow, now, they’re all disappointing to him. The shop feels desolate. The dust particles dancing in the air no longer appear beautifully ethereal, only melancholic; the light pouring through the windowed dome up above feels pale and watery; the silence funerary.

Aziraphale rests a hand on a copy of Milton’s Paradise Lost, and thinks of what he might be missing.

A loud voice in his head tells him that he shouldn’t be thinking- why is he even trying to think about this? The answer is right there, sitting inside him and squirming happily, nervously, miserably. He knows what’s missing, what’s always been missing, yet what’s been there this whole time. Waiting for him. Staring at the chessboard expectantly for him to make his move. Handing over briefcases of books and offering lifts home. And it’s only really since the flop that was the apocalypse last week that he’s seen it for what it is. A perfect clarity, a glorious surety that Aziraphale has never, ever experienced till now- about anything.

It doesn’t come to him in a thought. The decision isn’t made through any logical thought process like: I know what to do. No, it comes to him in a surge, too sudden and overwhelming to hold back or consider for too long. Too sudden for his usual cowardice.

Aziraphale’s feet take him to the phone. He runs his fingers through the numbers, turning the dial, and waits.

He waits only three seconds.

“Alright, Angel.”

And it’s like that surge disappears as quickly as it came- a burst of air lifting a leaf off the ground, only to let it fall, fluttering to the cold, damp ground of reality. Aziraphale swallows. Feels the moment catch up with him with horrifying speed.

What is he meant to say now?

“H-hello, Crowley,” he says through a forced smile, though Crowley’s not there to see it. “I was. Well, I was just wondering.”

There’s a pause. A long one. Aziraphale’s mouth clamps shut. Now is not the time to falter, he thinks to himself.

“Must be a big thing.”

“Sorry?” he breathes, broken from his reverie.

“Big thing. That you’re wondering about. If you’re calling me and breathing down the phone. I can practically feel the anxiety creeping through the wires.”

His mouth opens and closes. Then opens again. And he croaks, “Yes. Um, what I wanted to say was. Was this.” He hesitates, but only for a beat too long. He scrunches his eyes closed. Scrunches them so tightly he can see stars. “Music.”

“Music?” Crowley repeats immediately, dumbfounded.

“Yes.”

“Music.”

“Yes,” he replies, sounding irritated. He’s irritated at himself more than Crowley. He’s rolling his eyes to himself for being so absurdly flappable. He is always the first to be flapped by the silliest things.

“Right.” A pause. “You. So. Yeah, you’ve got to help me out here, Angel.”

“What I mean to say- very, very badly, really,” he says, wincing again, “is whether you’d like to come round to the shop. Help me sort through my mess of a record collection that you’ve been nagging me about since 1964.”

Another pause. Then, “Oh.” Pause. Aziraphale’s perfect posture stiffens impossibly further. Ankles together, foot tapping. “Yeah. Well, what’s all the fuss about then? You sound stressed. Like a… a stressed person. Not a person asking someone round for a drink and some music.” Pause. “There will be drink, won’t there?”

It’s impossible that he finds himself smiling and relaxing, given how far up his throat his heart is currently climbing. And yet. “Oh yes. Don’t you worry, my dear, there will always be drink pouring.”

“Alright. Well, yes. Obviously yes. Even if you’re being weird. You are aware that you’re being weird, aren’t you?”

“Painfully aware, yes,” Aziraphale answers truthfully. Then, quickly, “Shall I uncork the Montepulciano and let it breathe?”

***

They’re on their knees by a teetering stack of vinyl records. The bottle of Montepulciano is finished and there’s another uncorked on the desk beside them. There’s the smell of grapes and dust, a combination that’s become a smell of home to Aziraphale. Made all the more familiar and comforting by Crowley being here, by his side, tearing his beautiful red hair out in annoyance.

“This one isn’t even in a sleeve,” Crowley announces, aghast. He waves the vinyl in Aziraphale’s face, yellow eyes wide. “When are you going to look after the rest of your things the same way you look after books?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he replies casually, knowing that’ll just infuriate Crowley further.

It does- he growls desperately, creating a new neat pile of vinyls without sleeves, next to the piano music pile, to the right of the 1500-1600s classical pile. Aziraphale smiles sweetly at him, and Crowley points an accusatory finger, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“You,” he starts. “You need to get some shelves. Otherwise. Otherwise, I’ll come round here every day to check that you’re putting them somewhere safe.”

I wouldn’t stop you, Aziraphale thinks. I invited you here because you fill up my life. He says, “I don’t have room for shelves.”

Crowley’s mouth hangs open. He casts his gaze about the shop, gestures to the room. “It’s a bookshop! Tonnes of shelves! What’s one more pissing shelf going to do? Tear the fabric of the universe? ‘Sides,” he slurs, one class of red too many perhaps, “you could just extend the shop a smidge or two. Miracle it a cheeky inch or two bigger. Encroach on the neighbours’ space, sure they won’t notice.”

“Perhaps.” He thinks about this as Crowley blows the dust off a vinyl record of Mendelssohn. “Although I reckon they would. Humans can be horribly observant.”

Crowley hums knowingly. “Oh, yeah. When they want to be. When they don’t, they’ll turn a blind eye to anything.”

Aziraphale watches Crowley for a second longer. Tears his gaze away and looks down at the Glenn Miller record in his hands. He feels the dog-eared edges, soft cardboard between his fingers. He peers down at the smiling, black and white image of Miller and he’s taken immediately back to 1941. The Blitz, the smell of ash and smoke and the smallest, most precious moment of fingers touching. A feeling of pure adoration that’s never left him- that’s been there since the beginning, waiting. Triggered by one moment.

And just like before when his feet took him to the phone, Aziraphale’s body is taken by a surge of surety, bravery, knowledge of what he wants- damned if it’s right or wrong. (How freeing it is, to no longer have Heaven watching.) He removes the record from its sleeve and with his free hand, lifts the pin of the gramophone. Crowley stills where he’s knelt by Aziraphale’s feet, and they both listen to the crackle of dust being picked up by the pin.

Aziraphale stands by the gramophone and closes his eyes. Moonlight Serenade begins to play and he takes a deep, grounding breath.

“You remember that day,” he says, neither explaining nor opening his eyes to look down at Crowley.

His response is quiet, and almost immediate. “Yes.”

Aziraphale smiles. “I believe I owe you a dance.”

“You-”

“Don’t think of it as a ‘thank you’,” he continues. “I know you don’t like those. Perhaps just a dance?”

When he finally opens his eyes, it’s only after another deep breath- the nerves have made him forget how to breathe any other way. The shop is getting dark. The light is grey, there’s the quiet sound of rain hissing against the windows, and the song continues to play. And through the haze of dust and stacks of records he sees Crowley, kneeling at his feet, looking up at him with a look as if he doesn’t trust what he’s hearing.

Aziraphale therefore adjusts the look on his own face, betraying his nervousness, and smiles. It comes more easily than he thought it would.

He extends a hand.

Crowley looks at the hand. Lips parting and mouthing something silently, uncertainly. Then he croaks, “The 40s was a wonderful time for music, if nothing else.”

And he feels Crowley’s hand slip into his. It doesn’t send a jolt of anxiety or excitement, it doesn’t set off fireworks or give him butterflies like he imagined it would. It feels perfectly natural.

As Crowley stands up to his full height and looks at Aziraphale, he doesn’t let go of his hand.

The music sounds distant. Each passing moment feels very real. Crowley has frozen. Aziraphale knows all too well how paralysing this uncertainty is- and so he takes Crowley’s other hand and guides it to his waist. He sees Crowley’s eyes flutter and widen, hears his throat click as he swallows, feels his fingers grip harder on Azirphale’s hand.

“I think,” Aziraphale supplies once he’s shown Crowley’s where to put his hand, an abbreviated version of: I think that’s where your hand should go, although I’ve never done this before since I’ve only ever really wanted to do something like this with you, and I’m only just brave enough to do it now, and I hope I’m not misreading things and wrongly assuming you want this too.

Crowley nods. He nods and nods and nods compulsively, swallows again and fumbles for words. Hand warm in Aziraphale’s, warm on his waist. “Yeah,” Crowley manages. “Yeah. I’d say this is- seems about right.”

And Aziraphale rests his hand carefully- so carefully- on Crowley’s shoulder. He leaves it there and neither of them move. They stare at each other in disbelief that this is happening. They stare in disbelief that it took this long. They stare at each other, waiting for the other to start dancing, to explain what comes next, anything. Crowley’s eyes wide and his brows pinched, lips parted.

“Aziraphale?” he asks weakly.

And then it feels easy, heartbreakingly easy. Easy to smile, easy to be the brave one for once, to let Crowley be vulnerable. Easy to let the thousands of years pour through him and between them, between joined hands.

“Come here, my dear.”

Aziraphale steps closer. Fingers gripping tighter, frightened of what might happen if the other lets go. Would this moment disappear, as if it never happened at all?

Aziraphale tilts his head towards the ground and looks up at Crowley through his lashes. A gesture that is shy and self-conscious and happy. And Crowley huffs- a laugh, perhaps, or a sigh, he isn’t sure. He feels his breathe blossom against his skin.

He closes his eyes. He feels it all. He absorbs all the time spent together, all the time lost. The music brings them absent-mindedly swaying from side to side, and Aziraphale rests his cheek against Crowley’s. He’s warm. When he cracks his eyes open he’s welcomed by an auburn blur. The hand on his waist finds his back, and there’s the rush of a sigh beside Aziraphale’s ear. Then, a forehead against Aziraphale’s shoulder.

The song ends, the gramophone crackling to a stop. They dance in each other’s arms for a little longer, in a shop no longer empty.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #my writing #fic prompt #fanfic

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wordlessbabbling · 5 years ago

Text

Gun Metal and Daisies (Thomas Shelby)- Chapter 6

“I never called you Bonny, Bonny.”

Masterlist

So many people have told me I need to open up

But not a single person understands that every time

I pry my apart my ribcage, releasing all of the butterflies

That have been hiding there for years,

People are too busy swatting them away

To realise what I have done for them.

"What do you mean?", she stared back just as curiously.

"Those kids... the food... the child... you. You. Who are you?" It was a rare occasion when the Thomas Shelby found himself in the unknown. He hated the feeling of being uninformed, it made him feel like he was on the outside of an inside joke that he was the punchline to.

Dorothy only smiled, thinking of the children again, "those kids have no home. Every evening on clear out day, I give them the last of the produce for free as they struggle to find food in other places, doing odd jobs for a quick coin."

She frowned at her words, "the baby, Tammy, poor girl was thrown out when she was only a few months old, left in a box. The children found her and try their best to look after her. We always have milk lying about, this being a bakery and all, so I heat it up a bit and feed her the best I can on days they pop in."

Dorothy had zoned out by this point, she was staring out the window looking into the torrential rain pouring down outside.

"Sounds like it might be bad for business." Thomas raised a brow.

Dorothy only shrugged, "those children need help, I don't care if it's bad for business, I'm not going to throw them out to the dogs or factories. I've known then all now for a year and I'd be heartbroken to hear if anything happened to them."

A tear slipped down her cheek, she made no move to wipe it away, seemingly lost in her own world.

"You're a very kind lady, Miss Bonny." Thomas stated.

Dorothy was startled by his comment, for two reasons:

1) he's never said anything remotely nice to her since they first met - well, 'met' might be a strong word. They were still strangers.

2)Bonny was not her first name, nor her last name.

She furrowed her eyebrows at him. "I'm not Bonny."

Thomas chuckled, "I never called you Bonny, Bonny."

"Yes you did! You did it just then. My name's not Bonny." She stood up, hands on her hips.

"Well what is your name then?" Thomas mused.

"What's yours?"

It was in that moment that the conversation came to a holt. Neither saying anything, just staring challengingly at each other.

They seemed to be doing a lot of this recently.

"Bonny it is then."

Dorothy huffed at his words and sat down again, only to spring back up and head behind the counter to what Thomas assumed was the kitchen.

Thomas found himself following her, leaning against the archway to the entrance.

The furnace was blasting heat out, the crackling of the fire allowing a sense of comfort to wash over Thomas.

The quiet room was all of a sudden filled with the static sound of a gramophone in the corner. A beautiful classical piece played as Dorothy came strolling back around the corner. She jumped slightly when she saw Thomas leaning in the archway. Smiling sheepishly she turned towards a larder off to the side.

"Strauss, eh? Bit old school." Thomas called out from the doorway, now wondering into the kitchen.

"Few years off, it's Offenbach." Dorothy corrected.

Thomas' plan of trying to seem knowledgeable in romantic classical music backfired horribly.

"Yes, yes, of course." He tried to sound nonchalant, he was actually kicking himself at the slip up.

After 5 minutes of shuffling in the larder, she had all her ingredients in front of her.

Dorothy took a deep breath and got to work.

——

Dorothy was truly in her element.

Covered in flour, sugar, chocolate and jam, she shovelled sweet treats into the furnace.

Thomas had found a place to sit an hour ago. Just lost in his own head. He wasn't calculating or scheming. He was just thinking.

Thomas felt at peace in the kitchen of the bakery.

The sun had surely set long ago, the sheer heat radiating off the furnaces invading his mind and melting his worries. The aromas surrounding his senses, reminding him of that of his childhood, stepping into the kitchen, the smell of his mothers Chelsea Buns leaving his mouth watering.

But the best and most mind numbing sensation was the hum of Dorothy's voice as she swept around the kitchen occasionally chipping in the words she knew to 'Billy Murray - by the light of the silvery moon'.

The two not speaking to each other, but enjoying each other's company.

They were technically strangers to each other. Really, they had no idea who the other was.

But they were completely relaxed, no words had to be exchanged to feel the pure comfort that came with each other's presence.

Not that they knew that yet.

Dorothy found herself glancing over at the man - the rude man - in the corner of the room every now and again. She liked the atmosphere that came with him. She liked him a lot more than she did an hour ago.

She decided that this was nice. This was good.

Taking out the rest of the baked goods, she set them on a cooling tray, then turning to clean up the rest of the kitchen.

She looked back at the end furnace and realised there was one last batch of 'billion dollar bubs'. They were her personal favourite.

They were made up of syrup drenched oats, coated with dark chocolate, which was hard to come by. This meant they were the most expensive sweet she sold, coming at a price of 2 pence.

Rushing over to the furnace, she took them out, "they aren't burnt, but I can't sell anymore than what I've already baked."

Dorothy sighed as she plucked the tray on the counter.

She rubbed her eyes, "it must be the stress" she thought.

"Everything alright there, Bonny?"

Dorothy was startled by his slightly husky voice, it wasn't unwelcome, it just surprised her.

Nodding her head, "I by accidentally made an extra batch of Billion Dollar Bubs and I can't sell them."

Thomas raised an eyebrow at the peculiar name but didn't say anything. Thomas knew how to run a business but was clueless to the ins and outs of food produce.

"Say, would you like to try some of the Bubs?" She smiled as sweetly as she could, hoping he would accept so she wouldn't have to throw them away.

"I'm not really a sweet person myself. Never had much of a sweet tooth." Thomas shrugged.

"They aren't that sweet! It's dark chocolate, you see! They're really lovely!" She encouraged and prodded again.

"No I couldn't, besides, dark chocolate isn't exactly cheap, don't waste it."

Dorothy thought for a moment, she clapped her hands together; "well, would you say no to a thank you gift, for fixing my camera? It was very kind of you and I have nothing else but these sweets to repay you!" She smiled smugly at him. Only a monster would turn down a gift like these!

Thomas Shelby may have been a monster.

But maybe for just a second, he wasn't.

"Oh go on then..." he continued, "ill only eat a few if you eat some as well." He smirked a smile that would raise hell and trample heaven.

Always business and negotiating with Thomas.

Dorothy had no problem with this at all. She smiled even wider at the thought of eating some of her favourite sweets.

She picked up the tray and scurried over to where he was sitting by a counter. She placed the tray down and sat on the counter just by his knees.

"These are actually my favourite ones!" She gushed.

Thomas looked at the sweets to his left and picked one up, the slightly sticky sweet was warm in his fingers.

Looking back at Dorothy, she seemed more excited than he did that he would try one of her sweets.

"Well go on then! Give it a try!" She encouraged.

He squinted his eyes at her, not one to take orders. But what can he say, he was curious.

Popping the sweet in his mouth, his mind practically exploded.

Thomas all of a sudden knew why they were called 'baked goods' because it was fucking phenomenal.

Thomas has to stop a groan from escaping his lips as he threw his head back, savouring the bitter but sweet taste that invaded his taste buds.

Snapping him out of his euphoria, Dorothy questioned, "whaddya think?" She giggled.

Thomas' head darted back up to look at the girl, only just registering the sound that came out of her mouth. It was a gorgeous sound.

Clearing his throat, "oh yeah, not bad. They're not bad at all." He looked away from her burning gaze.

Dorothy would have been downtrodden by his words if it weren't for the fact she saw his hand creeping for another one. She only smiled, not wanting to discourage the hesitant man.

She reached for one herself and popped it in her mouth. She was less subtle with her reaction, leaning back, a moan leaving her throat, loving the sweet taste.

She was not aware of Thomas' wise eyed stare as the sound left her lips. She did not seem fazed by the effect she could have with those sounds - apparently far too pure for her mind to even think of such thoughts.

"I take it you like your sweets?" Thomas mused, a small smile on his face.

A genuine smile, one that wasn't mocking or fake or even suggestive. Just a smile.

"Bubs." Is all Dorothy said.

Now Thomas was confused again.

"Bubs?"

"Yes Bubs. Your name. Considering you like these ones so much."

Thomas' smile faded and was replaced with a frown, "that's not my name."

"Well what is your name?"

"What's yours?"

Dorothy smirked in victory as she recalled the previous conversation they had, had earlier when he thought it good to call her 'Bonny'.

"Bubs it is then."

Thomas's frown lifted a bit, "I don't like that name, take it back."

A very childish answer for a very ruthless man.

She shrugged and said nothing.

Thomas only now allowed himself to smile. He too, decided he liked this. This was nice.

Dorothy noticed the look on his face and was satisfied. She had done her job. Pleased that she made the rude man smile, and just for a while he was kind.

They returned back to their blissful silence that was just perfect.

Finishing the last of the sweet treats together with only one remaining. They reached forward, pausing midway through the action. Thomas chuckled, "go on then, that one's for you."

Dorothy, had another one of her good ideas, decided she didn't like his suggestion.

There were many ways she could have gone about her plan, she didn't think to consider those ones, instead doing the first thing that came to mind.

She took a bite out of the delicious item and then proceeded to shove the rest of it in front of Thomas' face.

Thomas, startled by the very forward action, decided that he would respond accordingly by doing something very forward himself and biting the rest of the sweet treat off her finger and thumb.

His lips brushing against the tips of her fingers.

Only when he had swallowed the food did he look up at her again, not being able to suppress a smirk as his face burned an attractive shade of red in the small glow of the furnace light.

Thomas decided not to torture the poor girl any further and leant back in his chair.

After a moment of silence Dorothy took a deep breath and got off the counter, her leg brushing against his knee.

"What's the time, Bubs?"

Thomas smiled only a hint of a smile. He took out his Pocket watch, "8:45, you need you be somewhere?" He couldn't stop himself from asking.

"Ah! Fiddlesticks! I need to get back!" Dorothy flailed around. Grabbing her coat and keys off the counter, double checking the furnaces were off.

Shuffling out of the kitchen and into the shop of the bakery, she noted that the man wasn't following her.

Huffing, she turned around. He stood there, just watching her as she got more flustered.

When Thomas did not move an inch, she marched over and grabbed his hand, dragging him out of the establishment, "I need to lock up, Bubs. I can't leave you in here."

What she didn't know was that Thomas was willingly moving with her, a fond smile on his face.

She let go of his hand to lock up, after doing so she tucked the keys under the plant pot next to the entrance and booked it down the street, only turning her head to look at Thomas one last time;

"Goodbye Bubs, I'll see you around!"

And round the corner she went.

——

I WARNED YOU THIS WAS GONNA BE FLUFFY.

Whew! 2000 words, I'm exhausted! I hope you enjoyed the sixth chapter of my book!

Thanks for the love.

Feedback and comments are wanted.

See ya next time!

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rorybergstrom · 5 years ago

Text

𝑫𝑰𝑫 𝑺𝑶𝑴𝑬𝑩𝑶𝑫𝒀 𝑶𝑹𝑫𝑬𝑹 𝑨 𝑩𝑰𝑺𝑬𝑿𝑼𝑨𝑳 𝑹𝑶𝑳𝑳𝑬𝑹𝑺𝑲𝑨𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑺𝒀𝑵𝑻𝑯 𝑳𝑶𝑹𝑫 ???

hello, it’s nora again…. hitting u with another child. a south london-born softboi who deserves tenderness. has a burner phone and doesn’t use social media. does techno dj sets. plays the synth loudly through the night if u live in gorham his room always sounds like a space ship just landed. deals weed around campus on his rollerskates. hates that he can’t get new light up wheels because ana coto made rollerskating cool again. as is tradition, here’s the pinterest board. this intro is recycled?? so if theres mistakes, sue me??? and be sure to like and subscribe for more unboxing content x

application.

『 FIONN WHITEHEAD ❙ DEMI-MALE』 ⟿ looks like RORY BERGSTRÖM is here for HIS JUNIOR year as a MUSIC TECHNOLOGY student. HE is 23 years old & known to be ECCENTRIC, FANATICAL, NITPICKY & DOGMATIC. They’re living in GORHAM, so if you’re there, watch out for them. ⬳ ooc name. age. tz. pronouns.

aesthetics.

bed hair from a permanent state of slumber, calloused fingertips from strumming bass into the early hours and djing into the blacklit night, self-help books thumbed once and thrown beneath your bed, battered copies of choose your own adventure books, spliffs passed half-arsed across rooftops while light pollution obscures low-hanging stars, marxist literature in stacks against your bedroom walls, a burner phone twice-shattered and a stash of replacement sim cards.

tw ocd, anxiety, drugs

half-swedish, half-british. the swedish is on his mother’s side. he’s bilingual but thinks in english. only really speaks swedish around his mother. only child, and kinda put a lot of pressure on himself to be the perfect kid when he was young, but his parents are honestly, quite decent? and just want him to have a nice life, they don’t care if he isn’t successful or rich or anything, they’re honestly rather solid. (wow imagine having nice parents, a first for all my characters, im literally this meme)

grew up in peckham, a suburb of london. growing up, his mum was a model / actress / waitress who later retrained as a speech therapist and his dad worked in her majesty’s service at buckingham palace. his dad wasn’t allowed to tell his family what his job entailed but rory suspects it’s probably very boring and just involves a lot of…. logistics n security.

was bullied a lot at school. [cole sprouse voice] he didn’t fit in and he didn’t want to fit in. unironically wore a trenchcoat to school every day of his life. spent most of his lunchtimes in the library because it was his safe space. as a result he knows…. loads of useless information because 30% of his school years were spent reading anthologies on space and the vikings etc. would be good on a game show. obsessively recorded every episode of university challenge as a child.

middle-class and lowkey quite wealthy but rarely talks about money, one of those well-off people who still wears really old shitty shoes and only spends money if they absolutely have to

virgin who can’t drive

into star wars, not into the big bang theory. feminist. can’t watch horror movies

favourite film is where the wild things are. also loves the florida project. thinks kids are the sweetest thing and can’t wait to be a dad to some. right now is dad to one cat, whose name changes on a daily basis (identity is constantly shifting, duuuuude), but they were originally named ‘wheezer’

rory has been musical for as long as they can remember. first picked up guitar because he thought it would make this girl esther who he was in love with like him, but he just ended up falling in love with music instead.

formulated several different bands as a kid but ultimately had to give it up cos he was quite controlling and got fixated on making a certain sound so it wasn’t really fun for the others. got into electronic music because it was something he could do basically on his own and keep tweaking until he got it perfect

always drumming their fingers or strumming invisible guitar strings. tends to avoid parties bc he has quite has specific tastes when it comes to music and doesn’t like listening to r&b for eight hours while people throw up into plastic cups.

a techno connoisseur. has been making electronic music since he was about twelve.

after his parents divorce, when he was fourteen, rory & his mother moved to run-down suburban neighbourhood, pittsfield, massachussets.

big into photography. he mostly uses a canon 35mm camera, but occasionally uses disposable ones when he wants that more rustic feel.

moving to the states, their photography became more focused on suburban neighborhoods and are often quite dark and cinematic (think gregory crewsden). here are some shots of pittsfield i really like which rory has on his wall [1] [2] [3]

falls in love 12 times a day. never had a girlfriend or boyfriend. gets sweaty when someone cute looks at him. flirting?? what?? would prefer to idealise them from a distance

gender??? hm. doesn’t really know where he fits yet, sometimes he feels like a guy and sometimes they dont feel like anything at all. isn’t really bothered, cos they think it’s a social construct anyway. uses he/they pronouns interchangeably, but feels like ‘he’ is more fitting. won’t necessarily pull anyone up on it cos he knows having an identity that’s constantly…. in flux.. can be annoying for others … and doesn’t want to be a burden even tho it isn’t at all?? rory internalises guilt

everything is socially constructed. mirrors let you move through time. the whole thing’s a metaphor. he thinks he’s got free will but really he’s trapped in a maze. in a system. all he can do is consume. people think it’s a happy game. it’s not a happy game — it’s a fucking nightmare world, and the worst thing is, it’s real and we live in it

has ocd. tries to let it affect his life as little as possible, but obviously it’s incredibly hard to control a compulsive disorder. was teased for it at school when other kids started to notice. he was obsessed with the number five, would wash his hands five times, count stairs i groups of five, he could only use the corridors in one direction and always had to keep his hands busy. it manifests itself in hyper-fixations (trains when he was a child – specifically steam engines – then later he became obsessed with space and the patterns of constellations, and now he’s obsessed with synthesizers) and repetitive behaviours like counting stairs. doesn’t really affect his social life at all, he can jst get a bit locked-on n hyper-focused sometimes.

has insomnia. barely ever sleeps. finds it hard to switch off from work / writing / gaming / whatever’s preoccupying him in that moment. he’s always awake at 5am and quite often sleeps in through classes but still gets really good grades because he’s very good at his course. rarely attends classes. prefers to work independently. doesn’t really trust his tutors are intelligent enough to be teaching him, and is particularly suspicious of the lockwood tutors. a music snob tbh

secretly a small-scale drug dealer, only does weed n some party pills. rollerskates around campus dealing cos they dnt have a car

likes: techno, the webpage cats on synthesizers in space, allen ginsberg, vintage gramophones, floating points, lcd soundsystem, marijuana, soft dogs that let you pet them, late-night strolls talking about the universe, independent films, cigarettes, herbal tea, gallows humour, long showers, brown eyes, tchaikovsky, dr. seuss, constellations, photography, late night jazz, vintage game boys and girls who could rip his still-beating heart out of his chest and use it as an ashtray. dislikes: weddings, funerals, formality, button-up shirts that people actually button-up, bananas, hot coffee, social media, people who watch and play sports, rap music – especially of the misogynistic variety, indie wankers in wire-framed glasses that play ed sheeran songs at open mic nights.

plot ! with ! me ! i’d say all the usual “exes fwb hookups spiel” but rory… is very tender and tame… i feel like a deer in the headlights of love……. so give me

study buddies,

people who are also into techno and are music snobs about it,

people who love all kinds of music,

people who are in bands that maybe rory’s recorded and produced stuff for,

people he actually jams with (he plays bass and synth),

unrequited crushes!!

someone they met at a knitting club in freshman year and have remained friends with despite no longer going to it

people rory knows from open mic nights and gigs

library girlfriends / boyfriends that he stares at longingly while paging through leatherbound volumes

gamers !!! social recluses !!! hermits !!

people he deals weed to on his rollerskates (why r all my characters obsessed with rollerskates)

skaters. rory is really shit at skateboarding. like really shit. help the smol

hm now that rory has !Evolved! ig we can do hook up plots if u want but he’s not tht good at divorcing sex from emotion?? like he hooked up w teddy once n felt hopelessly inlove so..... if u want soft plots b prepared for crippling sadness.......

stay groovy XD XD

#radintro #plot with me cowards #said in a very soft and tender way. whispered. im but a small bug in a gutter.

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darksunrising · 5 years ago

Text

Sola Gratia (4/?)

Masterlist

Rating / Warnings : Graphic depiction of violence. No real horse was harmed in the making of this fic.

Fandom : Bram Stoker’s Dracula, BBC’s Dracula, various Dracula and vampire lore.

Part 4/? (2216 words)

Author’s notes : I’m gonna take my horse to the- Oh god. Oh god no.

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

The following morning, I found myself numb and sore, as I apparently had slept on a sofa, near the fireplace of the library. The Odyssey had slipped from my hand, and lay on the floor beside me. I stretched my limbs out, and took a look at my finger. Surprisingly enough, it was clean, and the cut was already closed by a fine dark line. The handkerchief was gone. My mind still fuzzy with sleep, I thought nothing of it. And yet...

I figured, decidedly so, that it might be time for me to take my leave.

The room was filled with light, and I thought for a second that the weather might have improved. Through the thick glass diamonds that made up the windows, even though deformed, I could see the soft fluttering of snowflakes falling from grey skies. That was my luck, I frowned. If it kept on going like that, I would never leave this place.

With a scoff of annoyment, I made my way out of the library, and to the main entrance. The door was unlocked, and, using all my weight to push on the heavy wooden panel, I slipped outside. The whole yard was already covered in a thick sheet of snow, crunching under my boots. I couldn’t help but smile, even considering the disturbing strangeness of my whole situation. Everything was silent, the snow absorbing all noise, except for the muffled sounds of my steps.

Outside the gates, the village seemed, strangely enough, more alive than it did before. With a bit of imagination, you could just believe it was a normal winter day, too cold for people to get out. Every breath I drew let a thick cloud of steam past my lips. On the ground, when I thought I would only find undisturbed snow, I noticed steps, rather fresh, but very unlike those of a human. Curious, I followed, turned at a street corner, and couldn’t contain a gasp as I almost ran headfirst into a horse. The momentary fright passing, I still stepped back, hoping not to be considered a threat. The animal followed, ears pointed at me, nostrils flaring as if he tried to find some treat on me.

As I took one final step, my back hit something. Or rather, someone. A gloved hand appeared near me, holding an apple, which the horse helped himself to. I turned my head to see the pleased expression of the Count, apparently very content with the look of surprise I must have had.

“I feed them, when they pass through the village”, he told me, pretending to feel guilty as if it were a great crime. “They used to be completely feral, and now not much more threat than puppies.”

“I’m not very fond of horses”, I told him with a nervous laughter.

“How can that be ? They are magnificent beasts. Man’s best friend, if you ask me.”

He seemed almost offended, scratching the animal’s head, who seemed to trust him completely, indeed like a dog to his master.

“I have my reasons”, I replied, not wanting to go into details.

“Have you never learned how to ride ? It may rid you of irrational fears…”

“If you must know”, I started after an exasperated sigh, “I do know how to ride. I have also been sent to a hospital for three months because of horses, which is probably why I haven’t been friendly with them since then.”

The Count didn’t reply, and dug into his coat’s pocket. He handed me another apple, eagerly followed by the horse. I protested, but he left it in my hand, telling me to keep it straight open. Knowing there was no way I could escape that, I obeyed, feeling more tense than I had been in a long time. It’s just a horse. Not even that big. All fluffy with his winter coat.

“Count Balaur, I’m- I don’t-”, I started, starting to feel more and more anxious as the animal stepped towards me.

“Do not be afraid. You are perfectly safe”, he whispered into my ear.

Somehow, I doubted that. I remained still, holding out my hand awkwardly, trying to have it as flat as I could. The animal sniffed around the apple, and finished it in two bites, munching through it in a matter of seconds. The coarse beard hairs tickled my palm as he seemed to check if anything was left. Satisfied with his offering, he turned back to his horse business. I let out a sigh of relief.

“That wasn’t so terrible, now, was it ?”

I sighed and turned to face him.

“It was.”

I tried to sound harsh, but it only seemed to make him laugh.

“Well then, I promise not to do it again”, he told me, a hand over his chest. “Also, please, call me Vlad. You have already made me feel old enough.”

“Very well, Vlad”, I replied. “Do not make me fraternise with these spawns of the Devil again, if you will.”

He swore, again, and I turned back towards the main street, leaving the horses to their business, which was now the few more apples Vlad left for them. He caught back with me, offering his arm for me to hold. I decided to play along. We slowly walked into the snowed in streets, in silence. The ambiance felt almost surreal. Trying not to focus on his hand, his thumb occasionnally brushing on mine, I kept studying every detail that hadn’t been smoothed over by the heavy blanket of snow.

I started to genuinely enjoy it, yet had to stop dead in my tracks. On the corner of a house, a few feet over, blood had been splattered along the wall, dragged out on the stone. It was dark, almost black, but there was no mistaking it. I let go of Vlad’s arm, and hastily made my way up there. The path was narrow, stuck between two houses. Obviously, large enough to let a horse pass through, as that had been the case for the one lying dead at the end of it. I approached it, my morbid curiosity trumping the sinking feeling of dread in my stomach.

“Eris, come back. You don’t know what killed it.”

Killed. Right. As I got closer, I discerned the deep gashes opening up the carcass, leaving the organs to spill on the frozen ground. Good thing the cold kept the smell to a minimum, even through it still had me covering my nose with a part of my cloak. It looked… Chewed off, toyed with, but not actually eaten. I remained at a few respectable paces. The snow hadn’t fallen in the pass, and I noticed that even with all the gore spilling out and the multiple wounds, there was barely any blood anywhere. I examined the carcass, eyes drifting from cut to scrape. The animal’s head was thrown back in an impossible angle, the spine broken. On the neck, right below the jaw, was a very discernable bite mark. And it sure as hell was not a wolf’s.

“My, this looks dreadful. Why don’t we take our leave, dear ? I don’t want neither you nor me to be this pack of wolves’ next meal.”

Vlad wrapped his arm around my shoulders, and practically dragged me off the alley. His tone was indecipherable. He might just be actually moved by the horse’s gruesome death. He did seem to like the beasts, as strange as it seemed to me. I didn’t press further, still having a last look before we left. He was very silent as we walked back to the castle, and I had some trouble keeping up with his long paces.

He opened the main door with concerning ease, and almost slammed it behind us, the creaking of the wood on the stone floor echoing through the hall. He took my cloak -- his cloak, actually -- and asked me if I would wait for him in the dining room. I nodded without really thinking about it, still preoccupied by the horrific sight embedded in my brain. I mechanically walked through the corridors, guts and bitemarks flashing before my eyes.

I let myself fall onto a sofa, locking my eyes on the dying fire. I really didn’t want to overthink this. Still, a nauseating feeling twisted my insides. I tried to ignore it. I folded my kneed against my chest, holding them tight against me. The flames danced in the darkness. I thought at that point, I had to be confused. I didn’t understand anything. It all seemed to get stranger and stranger by the minute, and I couldn’t really just stand there, ignoring it. I cut my finger. A horse died.

I didn’t hear when he came back into the room, and had no idea how long I had remained staring onto the fire. Music started playing, with the soft, nostalgic grain of a gramophone. He set a cup of tea on the small pedestal table next to me, warning me to mind the heat. It steamed. His own did not.

“What’s in your cup ?”, I asked.

“Tea”, he replied.

I looked up at him. He was smiling, offering his hand.

“Eris, my dear, may I have the pleasure of a dance with you ?”

“I- I don’t know how to dance”, I tried to evade.

“You will find me to be an excellent teacher”, he told me, his voice sweet and inviting. “Would you do me this favour ? I dearly love to dance, and so rarely have the occasion.”

Understanding that my choice wouldn’t have any sway over the matter, I unfolded my legs, and took his hand. He guided me to the windows, placing his hand a bit above my waist. Some old dancing etiquette resurfacing in my mind, I placed mine on his shoulder, to which he feigned to be impressed by. I couldn’t help but giggle at his expression, to which he responded by pulling me closer. Following his steps was far easier than I thought it would be, and after a short moment, I did it without thinking about it. His eyes locked with mine. So blue. His hair was framing his face in long, wavy strands, catching the silver and golden lights of snow and fire. It almost seemed like he could read right through me, my thoughts, my fears, my desires.

I felt heat rise to my cheeks, and no matter how hard I tried to stifle it, the slight smirk on the corner of his lips proved my efforts entirely vain. He slowly had me spin away, and back, wrapping his arm around my waist at my return. With a mischievous smile, he dipped me low. I felt at his mercy, leaning back, with only his arms to hold me. He was so close. Too close.

I turned my head to avoid his gaze, only to feel his breath on my neck. I wanted to say something. Stop him. Did I ? His lips brushed against my skin. Cold. Soft. Sharp. I breathed out his name. It came out choked. He pulled me up, slowly. I could feel him smiling against my skin. He tilted his head up to face me, just after planting a light kiss, right above my collarbone.

“Are you afraid of me ?”, he asked.

His gaze was intense, face inches from mine, holding me close against his chest.

“What’s in your cup ?”, I repeated, in a whisper so low I wasn’t even sure he’d hear it.

He only laughed, quietly, his hands holding me tight. I pressed mine against his chest, freeing me of his grip. He let me go, perfectly conscious that he could have kept me there as long as he wanted. I circled around him to reach his cup, laying on the dinner table.

My hand shaking, hovered about it. Almost full. Dark, viscous liquid, barely see-through. The Count had not moved, simply watching over me, his tall silhouette completely darkened by the light pouring out the windows, behind him. I had to be sure. I had to know. Maybe this was all some kind of misunderstanding. Maybe he just pulled some sick, very unfunny prank on me.

I took hold of the handle, and raised the cup to my face. I didn’t dare breathe in. I dreaded the smell. The liquid moved around slowly, and I noticed a fine film had formed at the surface, breaking off as soon as I moved it. I breathed in. Bitter. Iron. Sweet, in a sickening way. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.

Before I could find anything to do, I felt the Count’s hands slip around my waist, one pulling my shirt to the side, revealing my neck and shoulder. I was paralysed, my heart pounding in my chest so hard it became painful.

“I am a fair hunter”, he whispered against my skin. “I will give you a headstart.”

He dragged his teeth up along my neck, my veins pulsing against the sharp edges. He placed a kiss right under my ear, almost tender, taking his time.

“Run, little rabbit.”

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

Taglist : @carydorse @angelicdestieldemon @bloodhon3yx @thewondernanazombie @battocar @moony691 @mjlock @thebeautyofdisorder

#horse #fanfiction #fanfic #dracula fanfiction #dracula bram stoker #dracula bbc #dracula castlevania #claes bang #vampire x human #vampire #sola gratia #sola gratia part 4 #slow burn #romance #i promise there's gonna be romance at some point ok #gothic horror

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perhapsitmaybedragons · 4 years ago

Text

God’s A Right Bastard But Then So Am I Chapter 3

Ok, still getting writing done. This is bizarre for me.

As always, either click here to read on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26633029/chapters/65053045

Or keep reading below:

“I have no idea what to do,” Anathema admitted after Adam unloaded all of his fears on her. He was supposed to be in school right now, but he'd got on his bike to go then doubled back to get to Jasmine Cottage. He hadn't even told the Them he was going.

“But you're a witch, and an adult! You must have some ideas. Turn me into a frog or something, that way I can't hurt anyone,” he shut his eyes tight, “I'll turn myself into one, that's what I'll do. And you can put me in one of those aquarium box things and Wensley will take care of me. Just until it's all over.”

Nothing happened.

“I can't turn you into a frog,” Anathema said gently. “And I don't know why your powers didn't go away. But Adam, last time you chose not to do anything bad. You came back from it and you didn't destroy the world. Why don't you think you can beat it again?”

“Last time didn't feel as scary,” he struggled to find the right words. “Last time it started with knowing I could change things the way I want them, but this time I can still make things happen but it feels like they're happening to me instead of because of me. I've been trying not to do any of the things the other Them can't, but they happen anyway even if I don't try to make them. I rode my bike over to Mr. Aziraphale's the other day, and it only took me-”

“Ten minutes,” Anathema and Newt finished for him.

“Yes, we'd noticed,” Newt admitted. “Us too. When we went for the surprise party for Crowley, only ten minutes driving.”

“I didn't mean to,” Adam said earnestly. Newt put a hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezed in what he hoped was a reassuring way. He'd always liked when his mother had done it to him, but he felt somehow that he wasn't doing it correctly.

“Do you think we should tell Crowley and Aziraphale?” Newt suggested. “They're a bit closer to all of this then the rest of us. They might be able to help?”

“It's worth a try,” Anathema agreed. “But Adam, aren't you supposed to be in school right now?”

“This was more important,” he said insistently. “It couldn't wait, I swear.”

Anathema was no fan of the school system anyway, so she didn't fight him. Newt looked uncomfortable, though. “All right. Well, we'll just get on over to the bookshop and see what Aziraphale thinks.”

It's a lie to say that no one knows the innermost thoughts of God. Whales have been trying to tell humans for ages, but humans just record the lovely whale songs and use them to try to get themselves a better night of sleep. Cats know, but have decided that humans wouldn't be able to handle it. Dogs know, but they keep getting too distracted to come out with it.

Humans sometimes can come close to it, but they've never quite gotten there.

The ones least able to fathom the mind of the Almighty these days were the uppermost echelons of angels. Gabriel, Micheal, Sandalphon, even the voice of God, the Metatron, were all puzzled that the Great Plan hadn't gone off as they'd always expected. Despite Aziraphale's insistence that they should realize it was the Ineffable Plan, they had gotten it into their heads that Crowley and Aziraphale had managed to undo all of God's careful planning.

“Don't know how they managed it,” Gabriel grumbled yet again as he swapped out his pearl tailored jacket for a pure white one. “Has anyone been able to get through to Her?”

Everyone shook their heads. “I HAVE NOT BEEN ABLE TO REACH HER. I HAVE NOT BEEN ASKED TO SPEAK FOR HER.” The Metatron responded.

“What do you think it could mean?” Michael asked. They were sitting in an upper board room in heaven. It was so high up that the only view out of the perfectly clear windows was clouds. Gabriel was the only one standing (if one does not count The Metatron, who could only project his head – though even that was floating above an office chair).

“We have to consider that somehow those two may have figured out how to cut us all off from God,” he put his arms behind his back as he paced, thinking aloud. “We know She knows all, and She is above being corrupted. But Her not answering us, her most ..beloved and devoted? No, those two did something, I'm sure of it.”

“But how could they have?”Uriel shook her head. “That doesn't seem possible.”

“An angel surviving hell fire and a demon surviving holy water wasn't supposed to be possible either,” he slammed his hands down on the table. “We have to continue with the plan as we've decided, even if we do have to work with,” he paused to shudder, “demons.” He spat the word out.

“I just don't know,” Uriel tried again. “I agree the world should have come to an end, but how can we be certain we're doing the right thing? Demons can't be trusted.”

Michael leaned forward in her chair and put a hand on Uriel's shoulder. “We can be sure because God is all knowing. She knows what we're up to. If She didn't want us to be doing this, She would already be stopping us, wouldn't she?”

The hills are alive with the sound of music

“I am going to break this stupid thing,” Crowley glared at the gramophone, knowing what was coming next.

Everything went all right, Crowley?

“Why are you even asking me? You already know, don't you?”

Yes, but I don't want to show off. Getting you close to see it for yourself should have removed any doubt I was lying to you.

“You're God, you don't lie. You just play games with the universe, right?” He set his feet up on the coffee table and leaned himself back on his couch. “One that only you know the rules for.”

I can't tell you the names of the riders.

“What, is it going to be some big surprise? If you give me the names maybe I could do something about them before this all goes down again. Is Adam going to be involved?”

Yes, he is. And you may be about to suggest that you kill him, but we both know you're too fond of him for that. And that it isn't your thing to kill children.

“Yeah, I've been wanting to talk to you for a while about that flood you only saved Noah and his family from, by the way-”

We don't have time. Not now. And before you say that I am God and therefore not bound by the laws of time, that is true, but I need you to act and you are bound by those laws, even if it is by less than the average human or even demon. Took you a lot of power to stop time to help Adam out, right?

“You know, I got cast out just for asking questions. Why do you get to ask so many? Especially the kind you know the answer to?”

He waited for an answer, but none was coming. While waiting, his eyes fell on the box with Agnes's prediction. Sighing, he grabbed the box and opened, only to find a small index card with the words:

“Be not afraid, even when dragons bane is brandished by thine enemy. A new revelation awaits ye.”

“Well, lovely sentiment there, Agnes, but fat lot of help,” he tossed the card down, not even bothering to pick it up when it fell on the floor. “Always hated the book of Revelations. Worst book of the whole Bible, if you ask me.”

I'm not fond of the book of Job myself, God offered.

“Why do you only talk through the gramophone? Hell uses the radio, it's a lot more efficient. Or you could...I don't know, text? You're the Almighty, surely you didn't use up all your imagination creating thousands of types of beetles?”

I have allowed Gabriel and the others to set up the rules of contact between myself and anyone who isn't an angel. I can only contact a demon like yourself through something Heaven touched, or they would be alerted.

“You mean because Aziraphale made some changes to this thing you're allowed to talk to me through it without it going on their radar?” He groaned. “If I'd known that I'd have given him the damn thing back! Does Aziraphale know about that rule?”

Probably. He's the only one who reads all of the notices that get sent out from Heaven. And reads through all of the Terms of Agreements for electronic devices. But he wouldn't expect me to contact you, and probably wouldn't expect you to answer me.

“Yeah, well, you've insisted that he and I are at risk if I don't, so I don't have much choice there anyway, do I? What's the next job?”

I need you to go to Heaven.

“Oh, ok, you want me to commit suicide,” he kicked at the table, just hard enough to jostle the gramophone without tossing it off. “Aziraphale could go in with less trouble-”

Not after his trial he couldn't. And he'll want to talk to the others to see if there's some way to work out a peaceful resolution. My will has been done by the angels since before time began, but that means they know all the loopholes. If I speak to an angel, any of them, there are records. Same if I talk to humans, those are recorded as prayer.

“But you don't talk to demons and the angels see us as so low they never considered you'd want to talk to one of us,” Crowley finished for her. Most demons didn't have an imagination, but that made it sound like angels did. But rather, angels could only imagine things where they inevitable came out on top with humans just below them and demons much further down. “But you could still tell me what do do.”

I am telling you as I need to tell you, Crowley. Have faith.

With songs they have song for a thousand years

“Have faith She says,” he grimaced, getting himself up from the couch to pour himself several glasses of wine. “Wants me to break into heaven and have 'faith'” He poured the first glass, downed it, then went directly for the bottle rather than pour more. He pulled out his phone to start to dial Aziraphale and then put it back down, cursing himself and God for this one.

“I'll tell him when it's all over. Provided we all survive it this time,” he chugged the rest of the bottle, opened a new bottle and drank that, too. He went back to the couch with a 3rd bottle and sat down, grabbing the card from Agnes off the floor. “Well, Agnes, I am already not following your advice because I am well and truly afraid and I can't even warn the others about how shit-pantsingly terrified they should be.” He drank the last bottle and curled up and fell asleep.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #aziraphale #crowley #good omens god #adam young #anathema device #newt #newton pulsifer

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mistersandmangivemeadream · 4 years ago

Text

W is for War

Intro: It was a simple request. This is longer than my usual, but it’s a pair I’m (amongst many others) acutely fond of. Sirius and Lupin were not given nearly enough justice by their original writer. I hope to give them both more hope and justice in the ways which I can.

Obviously, we are in the world in which Black did not die. It is a couple years later, around when Harry and Ginny are engaged with their wedding on the horizon.

There will be a second part to this eventually.

The title of the piece is a harken back to ‘M is for Magic’ by Neil Gaiman, a collection of short stories, who in turn got that from a collection of short stories by one of his favorite authors

Read This on Ao3

CW: death & war imagery

“What’s going on?”

A man looks up with eyes flaming like Gabriel’s sword at the Garden Gate of Eden. Perhaps a touch damper than that, but no one has been close enough to the angel to really tell if they too cry with the look of half annoyance and half on the verge of something else entirely unrecorded by men.

“I have to find it.”

The friend, very much confused as to what they have walked into, asks, “Find what?” Trapezes step by careful step over record sleeves that are scattered haphazardly around Sirius.

“Their song, Remus. Their damned song. I...” the air deflating quickly out of the man as he leans back onto his haunches though there are no balloons in sight. Tears begin to burn traitorously at the edges of his eyes as he angrily wipes them away with a sleeve. No need for those here if they aren’t going to be helpful in finding anything. “I found the record they played at their wedding…. that night...it just...needed some cleaning up...I kept it all these years” Gesturing to a plain gramophone on a hutch. “And now I can’t find it....I can’t...” Hands travel over these case-less records as if it’ll repair whatever is cracking.

Their sleeves forgotten.

Remus sinks to his aching knees, that have nothing to do with the cold or incoming storm front, to help. We’ve all felt them before, if you were to go pray right now you’ll feel it again even.

Floorboards creak. The wind moans. Wordlessly they search to and fro for 15 minutes or so. Brows furrowed and more and more desperate as minutes tick on by. They search under couches. In old bookshelves. Found things in the curtains that bite. Sirius suckles at his injured thumb as he bashes in some crushed velvet with a ferocity usually reserved for fiercer adversaries than decorative throw pillows.

Surprise of all surprises, as is usually the case when one is looking for anything that is lost, they find it resting in the back of the hutch the record player is on- where Sirius swears he had looked when he first began. It is untouched by time or hardship, dusty yet perfectly serviceable for their purposes.

The hair of a dog-man happy cries while he rushes around like a little boy asking for Lupin to, “turn it on, turn it on” as he exuberantly throws open the curtains. His dear friend smiles as he puts on the pin.

He looks 10 years younger and quite a bit more rakish as he puts out a hand.

“Dance with me, Moony.

It’s something your grandparents danced to.That your parents scoffed at as children till they too followed in their steps.Do all love songs work this way?

The bouncing around and stepping on toes and then hitting the slow songs. Spreading apart slowly like that new thing is fresh strawberry jam. Sticky and sweet and new and familiar. Sirius ignores the dry mouth that accompanies the closeness of his friend. He smells like cloves.

Waving to the record player which has begun to play Lily & James’ first dance, he moves over with sudden interest to observe the fat droplets that have begun to hit the window pane.Leaving a couple meters between the men. Lupin’s fingers twitch like Padfoot has always been his phantom limb. Be a little more outrageous of an idea if Remus couldn’t feel the ache returning. This time isn’t wasn’t just in his knees , it spread out in a particularly prickly way outwards from his chest, as it began to rain.

“I wanted to find it for Ginny and Harry’s wedding.” Sirius now grins back at Lupin who must nod away like a good friend does, “you think they’ll disown us if we recreate that night at Lily & James’s wedding? I don’t remember anything past you getting me outta James’ dear Aunt Barges’ claws.”Catching sight of his friend's expression that looks less than affable, the bark of a laugh dies in his throat. The silence becomes damning.

“You alright, Moony?”

Exasperation like he has never heard before from that mouth. Sounds like disappointment, but not the kind for putting his hand into the tin before supper or about his tastes in sock-wear. Something burns brightly in those eyes that look back at him. “Why must you always do that?”

Confusion clouds his face as he watches the werewolf stride over to the gramophone. “Do wha-”

“Do not dare insult me Sirius John Black-” as he raises the pin off the record the music dramatically stops. As he yanks it off, Sirius yells.

“REMUS DON’T-.”

The man pauses to look at Sirius. Just looks for an undetermined amount of time enough to make his friend’s skin crawl with apprehension. He grabs the sleeve and gently slides it back in, “Do you trust me so little, Black?”

That stings. “I….we just found it didn’t….” There are no excuses, none that matter, that the last time he had trust it’d died in a place called Godric’s Hollow. He had been running like hell was on his heel ever since.

Boys don’t come home from war; the men do. But even the trenches had radios.

Remus becomes as intrigued by the rain as Black had been earlier. Record still in hand, the grey slate a metaphor. Dull ticking of a clock a reminder about things lately borrowed. The room breathes as Lupin regains a composure he is most known for. As his thoughts start collecting again in an orderly manner, he speaks without reserve though it lacks heart, “I waited for you to not be dead.You were all that was left out of all we had lost. And I thought I loved you because you came back when no one else could. But that’s not true- ”

There are tears in those eyes, “I’m lonely too.”

There’s the ugly thing now like a croaking frog that leapt out of his mouth. “What was I before the moon? Before the war?” There is no time to explain.

“I don’t know.”

The Irish trip into their graves.

Do the English dance into them?

The man looks down at the piece of memorabilia.

“I miss them.” Then he rests it down back on the hutch like a babe laid to rest peacefully. Harry will one day play it for his child .This hope is like poppies as his hand rubs mindlessly at his chest where his heart should be if he hadn’t vomited it onto the carpet already at Black’s feet but a moment prior. “But I would miss you more now for knowing you.” Sirius’ tongue is mud. Thick and useless, unlike the strawberry jam sensation earlier it has an iron tang that is fast to fill the mouth.Can’t breathe for all the space in Grimmauld Place the lot of them. They’ve forgotten how.

There’s ringing in Black’s ears, his skin buzzes the same as whatever lives in the curtains, and Azkaban rattles in his chest like somebody is about to kiss him.

“Why do you always do that?”

“What?”

There is no memory of how Sirius got across the room so fast.

“Wait for me”

That kiss hurts. The second less so. The teeth clicking in unfamiliarity does much to make the library once more into a sanctuary, as they both come up air grinning and laughing like the fools they are. Not quite yet sure how to proceed, Sirius for once in his well endowed life discovers himself nervous at the foot of a lover.

We- and Lupin- shall call that poetic justice.

Pushing a lock of hair behind Black’s ear who has yet to come to terms with having butterflies at his age. Do they need cages? Can they live off fish and chips? “What is it?” Remus asked a crease furrowing his brow.

“Oh I was just wondering if butterfli-” he waves a hand, “-nevermind. We need suits, you know?”

Remus’ eyes glitter in good humor, “Oh do we now?”

“Of course for my Godson’s wedding. Unless you are telling me you’ve retained your boyish..form all these years?” The look goes to Remus’ gut. It is one he has seen half a dozen times….at other women...at other men. Sirius adjusts a lapel that need not be adjusted in his personal opinion. “I’m afraid it has seen better days.” Lupin tries to half-joke, not thinking about scars, fresh and not, underneath. “What about yourself-” He pretends to look around Black, “where do you hide all those pints?”

Scandalized and incredulous Sirius exclaims hand on chest, “I’m offended. They went straight to my fine derriere. Thank you kindly, Professor.”

An eyeroll most impeccable which had been under reservation for Sirus John Black since they’d been 11 he stated plainly, “Moony, you know I don’t teach anymore…”

Padfoot wouldn’t let Moony get away with anything, “I’m sure you could teach this old dog a few new tricks.”

The wink; His friend was back. The taste of him in his mouth still new he watched as Sirius went to snatch a jacket off the back of a chair. “Come on, luv.”

So he followed after.

#fandom: harry potter #char: remus lupin #char: sirius black #request #one-shot #family-friendly #m/m #harry potter #sirius black #remus lupin

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failedmy-tbtest · 5 years ago

Note

Hey man! Mind if I request Dutch with the Reader getting TB? That Javi headcanon is precious omg

ooooooh man ya’ll ain’t ready for this. i posted this on my archive as well! and thank you nonny for giving me something to write for my creative writing class as well!

wc: 2,586

Sounds Like

Part of you was wishing that you’d just stuck around camp that day. But if you hadn’t gone…who would have? Strauss had been eyeing Arthur to retrieve the debt, but he’d been busy that afternoon with some business in Valentine. Would he have asked someone else? Javier? Charles maybe? Micah? What would their coughs sound like?

You sat at the saloon running the pad of your finger around the edge of your shot glass as your head ran through the different scenarios. What would Lenny’s cough sound like? Would it be wheezy like Hosea’s or throaty the way Bill clears his throat?

Yours was hollow as though something was trying to come out, but there wasn’t anything at all. You eyed the microscopic drops of blood on the edge of your sleeve. Well, there had apparently been a bit of something.

Your fingers wrapped around the glass before you tilted your head back and poured the liquor between your slightly chapped lips. It burned, but so did your chest when you started to cough a little bit.

You brought your hand up to cover your mouth as the coughing intensified for a moment and it felt like your lungs were going to collapse on you right then and there.

“You alright, ma’am?” The bartender asked with an eyebrow raised, either thinking you were choking on something or not wanting you within a ten-foot radius of his bar. What would his cough sound like?

You nodded and dug through your pockets for the amount of change that the drink had cost, then started heading for the door.

“You have a good day now, mister.” You lazily swung your hand in goodbye to the bartender before pushing open the saloon doors.

People milled around the streets of Valentine as if the world hadn’t just completely changed. But it hadn’t, at least for anyone that wasn’t you.

You tried to clear your throat as you walked over to where you left The Count hitched in front of the doctor’s, and gave him a good, firm pat on the neck as you grabbed his reins.

The Count was Dutch’s horse, an Albino Arabian that refused to let anyone else in the gang get too close to him, but he’d taken to you even before getting used to Dutch.

“Hey there, boy. Thanks for waitin’ for me.” You shoved one of your feet in the stirrups and hoisted yourself up with a grunt. A soft cough shoved its way out of your chest as you got settled into the saddle before you spurred The Count towards the main road out of town.

Thankfully Dutch’s horse had been to and from Valentine so many times that he just about knew the way back himself, because you were so lost in your thoughts that you weren’t paying attention to where you were going. Your thoughts were wrapped around what the doctor had said, the words repeating in your head like a broken record Dutch once placed in his gramophone.

The leisurely ride back to camp included watching as deer bounded past, tracking the circles the hawks flew above, and listening to herds of sheep being led by their owner. It was peaceful and you couldn’t help but think of how alive everything looked.

By the time you made it back to camp you were exhausted, and quite frankly it panicked you a bit. You hadn’t done much that day but go to the doctor’s, drink at the saloon, and sit on The Count while taking in the scenery.

You hitched up The Count next to Silver Dollar, and gave both horses a solid pat on the shoulder before heading over to one of the tables spread around camp. You dropped into a chair and leaned into it with a soft sigh, though it came out rather wheezy. A pang of sadness and fear fluttered around your chest.

The members of the gang all milled about, doing various things for each other and themselves. You rested your head against an arm you had propped up and just watched them. What would their coughs sound like?

Karen was over by the girls’ tent with Mary-Beth and Tilly, sewing something by the looks of it. Javier was sitting nearby, strumming a gentle song on his guitar. You tried to think of the name, for he’d told you before, but it escaped you at the moment.

Uncle was over by the horses bickering with the Reverend, who was drunk as usual. Suddenly Uncle turned around and dropped the flap on his union suit, showing Swanson his bare ass, and you couldn’t help but break into a fit of giggles.

For a moment you were able to forget that itch in your chest that constantly wanted to be scratched, able to forget that breathing felt like a chore, and able to forget that you didn’t have much chance of a future.

Then you started to cough again.

You were hunched over the table trying to quiet your fit, but it hadn’t been enough as a gentle hand was placed upon your shoulder blade until the coughing subsided. You wiped off the corner of your lips in case there was any blood, then tilted your head up to see who had comforted you.

“Christ, pumpkin. Let’s get you some water or something, come on.” There he was, leaning over you. Hosea had concern etched all over his face and you tried to wave him off, but he wasn’t having any of it. He knew you better than that––you, Dutch, and Hosea being as close as you were and all.

What would his cough sound like? Similar to the one he already had or would he sound worse?

“I’m fine Hosea, you old dog. Just gettin’ over a cough is all.” You swatted his hand gently as he tried to pry you out of the chair, and he stood there quiet for a moment before pulling up a chair next to yours.

“That’s a hell of a cough you got there,” Hosea reached out and placed his hand on top of yours that was resting on the table. His eyes managed to find the flecks of blood on your sleeve easier than you’d expected. Hosea was a cunning man, but he was getting older in age. “What is it?”

You chuckled a few notes before clearing your throat and taking a deep breath that sounded rather wet, and you looked up at Hosea with a somber expression. In your head, the best case scenario was that nobody caught on to how sick you sounded, but in a gang of 22 people the chances of that were slim.

You tried to swallow past the lump in your throat before saying very quietly, “Tuberculosis. The doctor in Valentine said there was a chance if I get somewhere dry and rest but...you shoulda seen his face Hosea. It wasn’t the face of a man who thinks you got a chance to live. Quite frankly, I don’t feel like I do either.” You scratched the back of your neck and averted your eyes from Hosea. You didn’t think you could stand to see the heartbreak on his warm features.

“Does he know?” Hose asked ever so softly and you shook your head while clenching your jaw. You could feel your eyes burning and your breath catching, but if you broke down in the middle of camp everyone would find out, and you didn’t think you could handle that right now.

“S’why I went into town. Finally dragged myself to the doctor in Valentine and got the news. I knew it wasn’t gonna be good when I started spittin’ blood.” You rubbed your hands over your face and held them there for a moment, but Hosea pulled one of them away with a sad smile on his face. You could see the tears starting to form in his eyes and it only made you want to cry more.

“You should go talk to him. He’d want to know. I’m glad I do. It means I don’t have to worry about you getting in trouble anymore.” Hosea chuckled bittersweetly and you rolled your eyes with a hoarse laugh. It broke your heart knowing that you weren’t going to outlive Hosea and that he was going to lose someone he cared about yet again. After his wife Bessie had died, Hose had closed himself off a bit for a while, and now he was going to have to mourn you.

You knew you’d have to tell Dutch eventually, it was something you had been thinking about since you left the doctor’s office. You had no idea how you were going to break it to him and how he’d react. It terrified you.

“I know. Thanks, Hosea.” He helped you to your feet and gave a reassuring pat on your shoulder before sitting back down and pulling a book out of the inside of his coat.

You walked past Karen and the girls, giving them a tired wave as you wandered over to Dutch’s tent. He was leaning up against a pole with a cigar between his lips and a book in hand. You slowed your pace as you watched him, dreading having to disrupt the relaxed expression on his face. You took the moment to memorize his mannerisms: the way his eyebrows pulled together as he read a particularly vexing passage, the subtle nod he would give when he agreed with something to author said.

“You gonna keep starin’ or are you going to actually say something?” Dutch spoke up without taking his eyes off his book, and you flinched a little bit. The pain in your lungs flared as you remembered the way your knees slammed into the ground from coughing so hard.

“I-uh, I’m comin’ over. Jus’ hold your horses for a moment.” You cleared your throat and responded as you took a few steps towards his tent. The feeling was similar to walking towards the edge of a cliff and wanting to look down and see how far the fall was. Each step was a challenge.

“What’s the matter with you?” Dutch’s deep laugh rang in your head as you folded your arms across your chest, trying to look everywhere but Dutch. You didn’t say anything, instead you moved past him and went inside his tent to sit on the cot you shared. You felt like a child about to be scolded for something as you sat there, contemplating how to phrase what came next.

Dutch’s eyes followed you as the thin mattress creaked underneath your weight, and your head was hung low with your hands in your lap as you picked at the skin around your fingertips.

“Sugar? What’s wrong?” His voice had dropped all humor as he set his book down and held his cigar between his fingers. When you heard the bed creak and sink under Dutch’s weight, you doubled over as you hand flew to your mouth to muffle a sob. It was breaking your heart and it was going to break his.

“Miss, I...I’m so sorry. Your cough...it sounds like you have Tuberculosis.” You could hear the doctor’s voice loud and clear in your head. What would his cough sound like?

You could feel Dutch lean away from the sudden movement, but his arm quickly came around your shoulders to try and comfort you. His lips rested against your temple, his thumb rubbing against your shoulder.

“Mags, why-what happened?” He pulled you towards his chest as your shoulders shook with quieted cries. Your lungs were beginning to sear, and you could feel a coughing fit coming on, so you squirmed out of his grasp and turned away from him as you started to cough and gasp for air.

You could feel blood collecting on the inside of your lip and leaking through the corner of your mouth, so you quickly wiped it away before trying to take deep and even breaths. Beside you, Dutch had stilled. You could smell his cigar burning away, but not the sweet scent of tobacco, so he wasn’t puffing on it.

His fingers were suddenly around your wrist and moving it into his line of sight, the bright red liquid contrasting the light linen of your sleeve like a spotlight.

“Dutch, I-” You stopped to let out another small cough, then cleared your throat again. “I’m dying. I’ve got TB...from a feller in Valentine that owed Strauss money.” Your voice sounded raw from the coughing, though as of late you sounded like you constantly had a sore throat.

Within the tent, no sounds could be heard but the soft thud of Dutch’s cigar hitting the dirt and his boot squashing it out. You turned towards the man you knew like the back of your hand, and saw he had an odd expression on his face. His hands were on his knees as if he were bracing himself, and his body was slightly reclined. Though his eyes gave him away.

“Nonsense, we haven’t come into contact with anyone that’s ill. Hosea, now that old dog I could believe. This wasn’t a very good joke now, darlin’.” His voice was stern but his gaze wouldn’t leave you, quietly begging you to start laughing and tell him he should’ve fallen for it. Each second that passed where you didn’t, his body visibly grew more tense. You resisted the urge to look away, to run away so that nobody had to deal with this.

“I’m so sorry, baby.” Your lower lip began to tremble as Dutch’s eyes bounced around your face, trying to look for some sort of tell that you were lying. He pulled you back into a hug and held you tightly. You clung to your love’s embrace, and the immovable Dutch Van der Linde held his like the world was going to end.

“Oh darlin’, no you don’t-you don’t have to apologize. I’m only sorry I didn’t notice sooner.” Dutch tried to comfort you, his voice shaking for the first time since coming down from Colter. You inhaled and you could feel Dutch wince from his chin resting on top of your head. You hadn’t noticed how bad you’d sounded until the doctor had told you.

“Your cough...it sounds like you have Tuberculosis.” You had never heard somebody with Tuberculosis before. At least you thought you hadn’t but Thomas Downes had been coughing and spitting and bleeding all over you as you’d beat him for money.

“Is it-are you sure you’re d...not well?” Dutch asked you hesitantly, pausing over the word ‘dying’ as if it were cursed. You bit her lip and nodded, shifting your gaze towards the roof of the tent to try and prevent yourself from breaking down again. It wouldn’t bode well for either of them to hear your lungs flare up.

“I’m afraid. I don’t-I don’t know what’ll happen to me.” You stumbled over your words, trying to articulate them without beginning to cry again, but you were failing. Dutch’s hand moved up and down your back slowly, something he always did whenever he needed comfort but didn’t want to seem emotional.

“Have faith, darlin’. No matter what, we will...we will be alright.” He sounded so confident in himself that you almost believed him. Almost.

As you sat there in his arms, tears streaming down you face and fear making your heart pound, you couldn’t help but think:

What would his cough sound like?

here’s my masterlist and my requests are open!

#dutch van der linde #dutch x reader #female reader #failedmy-tbtest's ask #failedmy-tbtest requests #failedmy-tbtest's masterlist

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rcris123 · 5 years ago

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Isaac was up before any of them. And maybe to his own surprise Arthur slept throughout the night with Sebastian’s hand into his own. More or less at least. The medallion was on the ground. A light squeeze of the palm he’s holding. Eyes dart up – Sebastian’s still asleep, leaned against the foot of his table. Poor bastard; came all this way and for so little as himself...

Thoughts were all over; his forehead burned up like a furnace – but he knew that. Everything else, one big goddamn mess in his head.

Colm wanted to sell ‘em to the Pinkertons, using him as bait. It’s the one thing he told Dutch when he came back...

And Isaac. All that time he couldn’t forgive himself for leaving Isaac alone like he did. And the boy clearly ran off to Sebastian wondering where the hell his Pa’s gone. And nothing tore his chest apart more than knowin’ they barely survived another one of these...

This one was worse... He hoped, prayed the shoulder ain’t gonna come down with gangrene, ‘cause at this point it’s already feelin’ numb, itching up and down like an ant’s nest. He still felt Sebastian’s hand in his own.

He should try getting-

“Augh- Shit!” Well that woke him up. “I’m sorry...”

He can’t move. Just getting his head off the pillow made it feel like it was made of lead and like the brains fell out of the back of his skull. A light tug of the arm from Sebastian; teeth grit, air’s sucked in with a wheeze.

“Shouldn’t of done that-” Sebastian’s voice is thickened by sleep.

“Ah, you couldn’t of known.” And he still hasn’t let go. A pang inside his guts. The gang met him, that much was obvious, he wondered what Isaac told them about him. But words don’t come help him.

“How are you feeling?”

“About as well as I look, I guess...” Arthur sighed. “What ‘bout you?”

“I ain’t feelin’ half my body.” Sebastian cracked a laugh, and he tried one for himself, but the groan bubbled inside his chest regardless.

A short silence, allowing the pain to settle: “So... They let you stay?”

“Don’t know.”

“What did Isaac say-”

“I escorted him back to camp the day he couldn’t find you. John and the Irishman brought me in thinking I’ve done something to the kid.” A deep breath in from Sebastian, as if drawing courage: “He said we was lovers. So they won’t shoot me then and there I guess.”

Lips purse, another pang inside his guts and a shiver flowing up: “Guess that’s that then...”

But they ain’t lovers. Far from it. They-... What the hell was they that they ended up like this.

Do he have to play enamored now? He ain’t no actor and he rather despised pretending.

“You don’t have to-”

“I ain’t intending to.” Arthur had to be blunt, and it might of come off as rude, but he just ain’t knowin’ what he’s feelin’. It ain’t uncomfortable, just rather odd, ‘cause he still held onto the man’s hand like his life somehow depended on it. Heart picked at a gallop; he just had to say this: “Well, to be perfectly honest with you, I can’t make heads or tails of it all.”

“I ain’t much smarter on the subject, Arthur...”

“Guess we gotta figure something out-”

“We?”

He ain’t noticed how he used them words until it came outta his mouth.

“Guess there’s a we now... At least if you intend on stayin’.” Do you?

“Ain’t decided yet...”

Somehow the decision seemed to of been made the moment they put their hands together the night before ‘cause they ain’t let go yet.

Miss Grimshaw checked up on Arthur not much later, and by extension that meant Sebastian too – who got a scolding only Susan could pull off. She would of kicked him onto his feet. That’s when she notices, both of them did: Sebastian screamed in pain, trying to get up, grabbed his shoulder. Miss Grimshaw seized him and yanked the shirt off. Bandages, a fresh wound.

“Where’d you get this Mister-”

“Castellanos...”

“We gotta find you a bed. Quick. Arthur how’d you let him sleep like that-”

Arthur didn’t know, just looked on with concern as he was dragged off; and Sebastian looked back at him. Isaac just returned then from where-ever he’d been gone before.

“Pa?...”

“Someone’s hurt him...” Again.

They found him a spot somewhere by Kieran, not too far off his tent. That kid’s been nothing but kind, to them all and Sebastian too; both outsiders. It’s been fun for a while, makin’ fun of the ‘O’Driscoll’ but that clearly ain’t the case no more. Boy’s been delegated to goddamn nursemaid. Arthur insisted on apologizing. Then Sean came and chewed Sebastian’s entire ear off. Sat on a chair, accused him first, then started talking of his Da and other things of his homeland. Bedridden both o’em they got no place else where to be, so it was Irish history hours for the both of ‘em. Ain’t been so bad after a while: slept like a baby to that, or maybe it was just the fever that made him so goddamn drained. One thing’s for certain he’ll be hearing Irish slang in his dreams from now on.

All week Ms. Grimshaw and Mr. Pearson swung by often; both trying their best to keep Sebastian down. He knew the feelin’ all too well. But they got fed well, bandages cleaned.

Still Arthur’s fever ain’t subsided well. Bouts of sudden dizziness and heat. No matter how much he tried to get back to functioning like a human it ain’t seem to be possible.

It took two more days until he could sit up for more than half an hour.

At least Sebastian’s doin’ better than him. Dutch got rather sick o’ him one time thou, squawked about a wounded dog in his camp; so Kieran took him fishing for most that day. Pearson was ecstatic to have so much fish. He made a fish broth, and it’s been something he ain’t known he needed or longed for.

Both Isaac and Sebastian stood on his bed, slurping hot soup like they ain’t ever had it before. And that somehow stuck with him. He pushed himself to draw that, even if it wasn’t one of his brightest ideas, a monster of’a headache split his head by the end. He ain’t known what to write beneath it thou. Not yet.

Days pass still and the camp’s getting all the friendlier to Sebastian, what Isaac said about them felt almost like a memory and the man like he’s always been there. He was a father. He could tell, by the way he’s taken to the youngest in the camp, and especially the girls; he snuck in to help Tilly and Marry-Beth with the chores Grimshaw gave ‘em. Arthur was sure they ain’t ever got cleaner clothes. Sebastian even taught Isaac how to properly scrub a shirt.

He got pangs inside his stomach whenever he thought about that. About, well, Sebastian, and what a whole ‘nother breed of man he was. How’d they even end up in the same place. How’d Sebastian end up in a whore house! That man laying down for others... And he ain’t sure how all that’d be working; lay on one’s back, spread his legs and hang his mouth open. Did his cock get hard-

Jesus.

It ain’t like that...

No. There ain’t no denying it.

One day, Sebastian came to him. His shoulder was doing only better; at last he could move it with at least somewhat more accuracy. He was thinking of going hunting again, but Sebastian came to him.

“I saw you writing a lot.” He did. Kept him busy all these long dreary days where he was in-between ill and well. “I thought you’d have more use for this than I do.” Sebastian hands Arthur a pen.

A real fancy one: polished copper, and it ain’t no fountain pen, it had all the ink inside, and on the side two arrows. Jaw clenches. It was the first time since they held hands all those weeks ago that Arthur got that physical or affectionate: he pulled Sebastian into a hug. Man huffed against him.

How thy hell was he supposed to thank for that. He ain’t got no words. Nothing, nothing at all than a heart that drummed. He ain’t deserved any of the kindnesses Sebastian did to him.

Arthur ain’t deserving nothing...

“Thank you.” It was low, a rumble, spoken right next to the man’s ear. “Thank you.”

That day, Arthur tied that medallion ‘round his neck, the Saint Sebastian one. It had to be a lucky talisman. And he finally knew what to write in his journal next to that drawing of him and Isaac eating fish broth; with the new pen to boot. That day he went up to Dutch:

“How are you feeling?” man asked, smoking his afternoon cigarette like it was a ritual; the gramophone blaring its high pitched song.

“Much better.” Arthur replied; inhaled to gather courage: "Guess I need some days away after beein' cooped up in 'ere for weeks. Just me and the kid."

Dutch looked at him before puffing out the smoke, voice was inquiring: "And Sebastian?"

"And Sebastian."

Dutch threw the cigarette away, stomped the butt with his heel and moved closer to him:

"You know it smells of rotten business to me"

"Dutch!” Arthur got insulted plenty times but being called a fool for trusting a man he knew he could trust really offended him. Arthur can fend for himself and Sebastian ain’t no danger to the camp, just like goddamn Kieran. But that ain’t what Dutch meant. Lips purse, Arthur draws away; the remark is cold: “You know that all that matters to me is loyalty. ..And Isaac. Isaac's been all uppity these past few weeks. He needs some time with his Pa."

“Ye’r coddling him Arthur.”

“That ain’t ye’r call to make.” Don’t talk to him about parenting, Dutch. They were both outlaws and that ain’t a gentle life and not one fit for a kid that ain’t asked for none of this, least of all his Momma getting murdered like she did. “The kid ain’t an outlaw and I ain’t makin’ one o’ him. I want him to have better than I had. We all do.”

Dutch fell silent for a moment, then next he spoke his accusatory tone was gone:

“I hope you know you’re like a son to me, Arthur.”

“I know...”

They still left that day.

“Where we headed, Pa?” They barely left camp, but the boy was smart enough not be heard.

“Sebastian?” Arthur ain’t really got much ahead of him, while he reckoned the man had something to return to.

And in all these weeks he still ain’t learned what exactly happened that Sebastian got his shoulder stabbed; he only said the obvious: someone was displeased and took corrective action. Arthur could only wonder if he was from the Molly-house, or maybe a client, to say it delicately.

“Well... I should be heading back to Saint Denis.”

“Then we’re comin’ with you.”

“No-” A purse of lips, a deep inhale. “No matter what I say you’ll still come with me, won’t you?”

“Guess that much is obvious. Lead the way, pardner!”

“How the hell did I get stuck with you?”

“We have a bad habit of getting nosey.” Isaac said in Arthur’s stead. This kid...

“You’re a menace and a half, boy. Hope you’re well aware of that.” Arthur intervened; yeah there was still a smile on his lips.

“Yes, sir.”

Laughter from all three of them.

“You raised quite the son there, Arthur.” Sebastian spoke. “Knows how to talk back, but for Christ’s sake can’t wash a shirt.”

“It ain’t like that!” Arthur chucked and the offense in Isaac’s tone could be felt, not just heard. “Pa!”

“Settle down, Isaac. He means you no harm.” Father talked to son; Isaac scowled but the road went on regardless.

It took a while before more serious topics arose:

“Where are you intending to stay? In Saint Denis I mean.” Sebastian asked.

“Can’t we stay with you?” Isaac replied with another question.

“Don’t think it’s a great idea to be staying in a Molly-house of all places.” Arthur tried, but he knew where that sentiment came from. Kid got used to Sebastian.

“It’d be for the best...” Obviously Sebastian ain’t enthusiastic either. “But there’s plenty hotels around the city. The Grand Hotel has plenty rooms, you should check there.”

“And now that leads to the question of money. We ain’t the richest people...”

“One dollar per night.”

Shouldn’t be too bad, but-

“How long are we gonna stay?” Isaac took the thoughts from his head.

“Dunno. I...” He looked at the boy. “I gotta think of some things over.”

More exactly: how to honor Isaac’s wishes without leaving any of the gang behind. John’s got a family of his own, wife and child. The girls, they can’t keep living like this. There’s a few men he reckons would fit better someplace else; the young ones: Sean, Lenny, Charles, even that Kieran kid, get the boy to work at a stable or something. But it ain’t easy talking to stubborn idealistic men: Sean might sooner die than give up robbing rich folk. Well he ain’t wrong, but their goal’s always been getting the money then getting out.

Seems there ain’t enough money in the world for people like them. They almost had all they needed in Blackwater, but that’s done and over-

Or was it. They ain’t knowin’ Sebastian, if only he and maybe that Kieran kid went back to collect, they might just get their hands on those money. It could give Sebastian a life. Whatever he got hurt over ain’t worth it and he reckons the man should pack his things and go.

But he can’t without the money, and Arthur ain’t sure he wanna pop that question to him.

A sigh.

“Everything a’right?” Sebastian sounded caring, and truth be told Arthur’s been silent for a while now.

“Nothing worth ruining a good mood over.”

“We in a good mood?” Sebastian cracks a laugh.

“Would you wanna be?”

“If I wouldn’t know you any better, I’d be sayin’ you’re flirting with me, Arthur.” Was that a dare, Sebastian...

But the kid had to speak up: “Everyone in camp think that anyway...”

“In no small part thanks to you.” Sebastian says.

“My own son snitching on me...”

“But the two of you are getting along.” Isaac continued with his statement. “You held hands- ��

“Isaac... It ain’t like that-”

“I just wanna know, Pa.” Isaac bowed his head then picked it up again: “You ain’t got sweet on anyone since I can remember. And it ain’t like you gotta be Dutch, bringin’ in girls once every few years, but... Well, Sean and Lenny all got sweet on the girls in camp, and it made ‘em happy! Thought someone might make you happy too, ‘cause Momma’s-”

“Isaac... You sweet kid. I’m well enough happy just to’ave got you.” He’d smooch the boy’s forehead if he wouldn’t be galloping.

He saw that, Sebastian, he saw that smile. And he ain’t quite sure what to make of this feeling; the heart’s heavy thinking that somehow he led the kid to think that it’s his job or someone else’s to keep this poor fool happy, at the same time’s filled with warmth ‘cause Isaac was, despite Arthur’s worst, shaping up to be a real good man. The boy has a chance at a real family, if only Arthur could gift him the freedom of a steady life.

There ain’t nothing easy...

Silence falls again and Saint Denis opens at their feet. They left Sebastian at his place, while they went on towards the Grand Hotel. They lodged in.

He was thinking of ways to earnestly earn money and maybe get Isaac involved as well to try and give him the chance of a honest livin-

“Mary?...” His mouth hangs open and he holds Isaac back, pressing the boy against his body.

“Arthur...” She was just as surprised to see him as he was to see her. “I... I would have wrote you a letter...” She looks down at Isaac, whose head whipped back looking for an explanation from his father. “That’s your son.”

“Isaac. Yes. He was real young when we- uhm...” The explanation was for the boy.

“How old is he?”

“17 this upcoming October...”

“I didn’t know- I. Arthur, I didn’t think you- You raised the boy an outlaw too.”

“No!” Don’t go accusing him, Mary... “He ain’t ever robbed someone- He’s always helped people, Mary. He’s most considerate.”

“Oh, Arthur, but if you couldn’t get out of your ways how’d you ever expect him to do so? You’re so tied up in your, your ideology-”

Isaac snapped: “We will get out.” Arthur kept him down. “We just gotta take care of a few people.” His son’s sounding more and more adult by the moment.

Mary looked at Isaac most shocked, a hint offended, then back at Arthur: “I’m sorry, Arthur... I see it now, no matter how much I still think of you, it would never have worked between us.” Arthur pins Isaac down when the boy tried to speak up again, shooting a glance back at his father with irritation. “You’ve been lying to yourself and your brought up your son to think the same! You think this ends somewhere? If it does, then change something, Arthur-”

“Don’t you speak to my Pa’ like that.” Isaac growled.

“Isaac.”

“I’m sorry, Arthur... I... I have to go now.”

Mary passes by them and trots downstairs. Arthur inhales deeply.

“C’mon. To our room.” A gentle nudge, and of course the boy picks up on the shift in his voice, the way the tone lowered and got drained of it’s usual sarcasm.

“Pa’, you can’t let people, that know nothing of us, speak to you like she did. It’s unfair.”

“People ain’t always fair, Isaac.”

“But you cared for her. She should have been.”

“Ain’t you getting your lil’ head wrapped up in some drama it ain’t supposed to be in?”

“You loved her, Pa, didn’t you...”

“Long time ago. Yes. You were real young.” Arthur sighs, opens the door to their room and steps inside after Isaac. “She couldn’t compromise and I couldn’t neither; ‘cause I was an outlaw.”

“But you tried.” Isaac sat on the edge of the bed. “I know you did.”

Arthur sits beside him: “That ain’t meaning I did my best...”

“I ain’t no outlaw.”

Arthur drags the boy onto his lap and presses a kiss on his back: “No, you ain’t.” A hand goes to comb that always messy hair of his: “You got gentleman material about you. You’ll be a great man, a great husband. Don’t let me stop you.”

Isaac shifts in his father’s embrace to wrap his arms around him.

“We gonna get out. And it ain’t only gonna be me.”

That’s a big dream, son...

Night fell. He couldn’t sleep, but Isaac found it soon enough, sprawled on the expensive bed. Instead Arthur found himself on the narrow balcony smoking a cigar; cause just a lil’ bit of tobacco won’t do right now.

Mary just had to come in and make it all the more complicated – well, more like heartbreaking. At one point he dreamed, he really dreamed that he could be a husband to her, and her a mother to his son. But there was no way that was ever goin’ to happen, just ‘cause he is who he is. And how can he blame her and say he ain’t at fault that he’s an outlaw that can’t leave the life.

He should of left now, with Isaac for his sake. And he really wanted to. But it ain’t that easy. Arthur ain’t alone out there; John, Abigail, Jack, they’re going through the same struggles as him. They need a way out too. And if Arthur just left the guilt’ll follow him to his grave. Him and John grew up almost like brothers, annoying and dumb as he was Arthur cared ‘bout him, but mostly about his family, ‘cause the moron became a father almost entirely by accident.

And it wasn’t like Arthur became a father by design.

He can barely remember Eliza’s face. He saw her few times...

The cigar was reaching its end...

He left the balcony after the butt was thrown away. A hand goes in the satchel to grab a bottle of whatever liquor he had in there. And it all went down his throat in one go. Then Arthur went out the door, downstairs and out into the street.

He thought back to Sebastian-

He found a few more bottles of alcohol on himself. He stumbled half drunk into the brothel:

“Hi there mister-” language is slurred. “Hav’you seen Sebas-”

“Arthur?” he climbed downstairs, barely in a shirt and suspenders.

“Sebastian!” a big smile, a stumbled forward.

They more or less landed in each other’s arms. The lil’ saloon was quite busy tonight-

“You drunk, friend?”

“Just a lil’ tipsy.” And kind of missing a friend, hey- did Sebastian just call him friend...

“How’s Isaac?”

“Asleep- Can I talk to you ‘bout something-”

“Anytime.”

A hand lands heavy on Sebastian’s chest and stays there, fingers finding their way underneath the suspenders; head bows:

“I met Mary today.” He doesn’t know who Mary is, Arthur. “Mary’s- You see, I loved her a long time ago. I missed her so long.” Sebastian’s body stiffens. “I met Mary today an’ I made a fool o’myself... Said I wouldn’t- couldn’t change. And Isaac’s... Isaac’s told her off-”

“Sebastian, take him upstairs!” the bartender shouted.

“It ain’t like that!” Arthur shouts back at the man, returns his head to Sebastian soon after- “I ain’t wanting sex-”

He guesses he just wants a companion.

“Come outside with me.” Sebastian drags him outside, more or less pulling him on the hand; Arthur follows.

“Sebastian- I ain’t got ‘nough words to, just, thank you- Oh, I’m afraid you caught a fool...”

“At least you ain’t a moron.”

Arthur laughs: “Guess I got that...”

“I was thinking you got more than that...”

He’s not sure what he was alluding to: “You?”

“What?”

Voice gets low and raspy: “Do I got you?...”

It ain’t that cold out, but there’s goosebumps raised on Sebastian’s arms. The man looks down; a pause:

“You’re wearing it-”

“You saved me countless times, I-”

“I didn’t bring you back when Isaac needed it.”

“But that ain’t the point! You saved me.”

“You have any idea what place you pulled me from.” Sebastian grabs the collar of his shirt and brings him closer. “Those three weeks in the camp were the most pleasant since-”

“Don’t think ‘bout that-”

Sebastian’s head drops again, fists pull Arthur closer and he just leans in. “I ain’t no Saint.”

“Like that’s what we’re meant bein’. I’m an outlaw for Chrissakes...”

A bitter laugh bubbles out of Sebastian: “Maybe I should be one...”

“And I who though we were tryinna become more upstanding citizens.”

“We... We.” His fists clench in Arthur’s shirt. “You still ain’t told me what you’re wanting to talk about.”

“Do I gotta ask again, goddamnit-” He’s feeling light on his feet. “What’s it with you? Do I. Got you.” He leans into Sebastian.

Silence. Bent over each other on the side of the road, Sebastian’s fists into his shirt, Arthur’s arms at ease beside his body, breath stinking of all sorts of cheap alcohol they just sit like that, like some broken down statue that you can’t tell what’s was ever meant to represent.

It’s a strange feeling bubbling in his gut, sweet and sour, tastes and burns like bourbon on his tongue; the more he sits like this the warmer his insides become, his palm, his temples, and heart starts beating like a drum, heavy. He remembers Mary for some reason... An electric shiver runs through his body, from the chest down, into his guts.

Arms lift at last, place themselves on Sebastian’s waist. Head dips up and closer in. He only catches the sound of a breath cut short when his lips press onto the other’s neck, just above the collarbone.

Retreat came quick.

Sebastian tilts his head away from where Arthur kissed, as if ashamed, as if allowing him for more.

Silence once again until Arthur couldn’t handle him looking at him like that, hair swept to the side of his face, eyes half lidded and expecting.

“That’s what I am to you?” Arthur speaks up at last.

“If you want that...” Sebastian’s lips tremble.

“Dunno what I want.”

“You seemed pretty convincing to me-”

The second one is ravenous, mouth presses wide and wet onto Sebastian’s neck, lips draw skin beneath them, then teeth. He moaned.

Arthur pulls away, startled, until bodies are no longer together. Breath is quick and shallow. He looks away. So does Sebastian, but his gaze quickly returns:

“Anything you want to take upstairs?”

The word that bubbles in his mouth is different that what his mind’s thinking, but lips purse and he’s got the notion that he has to weigh the heaviest feeling: that part of him wants this. Sebastian cares...

His name dangles from his neck, and his pen in his pocket.

“Yes.”

#rdr2 tag #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #sebastian castellanos #isaac morgan #sebthur #mary linton #WE L L THINGS HAPPEN THIS CHAPTER

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gotatext · 5 years ago

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hello, it’s swamp witch nora again…. i couldn’t stay away.... hitting u with a tiny baby boy who is also terrible (sometimes). musical softboi who loves karl marx and hates children dying in cobalt mines to make smart phones. as is tradition, here’s the pinterest board, have a peruse. fyi sorry for those of u who have read this intro a thousand times i literally.... can never b bothred to change it n i think thats really sexy of me x

CHARLIE PLUMMER / DEMI-BOY — don’t look now, but is that rory bergström i see? the 23 year old music student is in their junior year and he is a rochester alum. i hear they can be whimsical, impassioned, self-indulgent and nitpicky, so maybe keep that in mind. i bet he / they will make a name for themselves living in griffin street. ( nora. 24. gmt. she/her. )

aesthetics.

tw ocd, anxiety, drugs

middle-class and lowkey quite wealthy but rarely talks about money, one of those well-off people who still wears really old shitty shoes and only spends money if they absolutely have to

virgin who can’t drive

into star wars, not into the big bang theory. feminist. can’t watch horror movies

favourite film is where the wild things are. also loves the florida project. thinks kids are the sweetest thing and can’t wait to be a dad to some

has been musical for as long as they can remember. first picked up guitar because he thought it would make this girl esther who he was in love with like him, but he just ended up falling in love with music instead.

a techno connoisseur. has been making electronic music since he was about twelve.

after his parents divorce, when he was fourteen, rory & his mother moved to run-down suburban neighbourhood, pittsfield, massachussets.

big into photography. he mostly uses a canon 35mm camera, but occasionally uses disposable ones when he wants that more rustic feel.

falls in love 12 times a day. never had a girlfriend or boyfriend. gets sweaty when someone cute looks at him. flirting?? what?? would prefer to idealise them from a distance

gender??? hm. rory don’t really know where they fit yet, sometimes he feels like a guy and sometimes they dont feel like anything at all!! slippin out of his physical form into the spirit realm! isn’t really bothered, cos they think it’s a social construct anyway. uses he/they pronouns interchangeably, but currently feels like ‘he’ is more fitting. won’t necessarily pull anyone up on it cos he knows having an identity that’s constantly…. in flux.. can be annoying for others … and doesn’t want to be a burden even tho it isn’t at all?? rory internalises guilt

occasionally deals weed n pills when strapped for cash, but only 2 ppl he knows, and on a very small scale grass-roots level!! (so its ok???) rollerskates around campus dealing cos they dnt have a car. we love to see it

aesthetics: bed hair from a permanent state of slumber, calloused fingertips from strumming bass into the early hours and drumming into blacklit night, self-help books thumbed once and thrown beneath your bed, watching vine compilations until your eyes turn square, battered copies of choose your own adventure books, spliffs passed half-arsed across rooftops while light pollution obscures low-hanging stars

plot ! with ! me ! i’d say all the usual “exes fwb hookups spiel” but rory… has never hooked up with anyone… i feel like a deer in the headlights of love……. so give me

study buddies,

people who are also into techno and are music snobs about it,

people who love all kinds of music,

people who are in bands that maybe rory’s recorded and produced stuff for,

people he actually jams with (he plays bass and synth),

unrequited crushes!!

actually i think rory had sex w delilah in the last version of this rp so if u want a hook up plot its possible just unlikely. they’d hav 2 be the driving force i reckon cos rory doesn’t really act on impulses like desire or anythin.... jst bottles that shit up !!! but yea we could do a spicy hook up plot maybs, depending on the person

someone they met at a knitting club in freshman year and have remained friends with despite no longer going to it

people rory knows from open mic nights and gigs

library girlfriends / boyfriends that he stares at longingly while paging through leatherbound volumes

gamers !!! social recluses !!! hermits !!

people he deals weed to on his rollerskates (why r all my characters obsessed with rollerskates)

skaters. rory is really shit at skateboarding. like really shit. help the smol

#tw drugs #tw ocd #tw anxiety #HUNTINGTONINTRO

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